A Simple Soldier
by Charis77
Summary: A series of vignettes about a simple soldier and his interaction with the more well known faces of Camelot.
1. The King

Berimund rolled his shoulders and tried to ignore the cacophony seeping even through the thick wooden doors of the king's chamber. It wasn't his place to intervene, he reminded himself. Still, part of him wanted to walk through those doors and share the king's burden.

Berimund had been attached to the castle as a guard less than a month ago. He might have taken pride in the appointment, but for the dark cloud he entered under. Their beloved queen's death had been the impetus for his rising in the ranks—more guards stationed throughout the citadel to prevent further attacks. The shadow of mourning persisted. Much of this had to do with the king who had gone about his duties but without the spirit he used to display. Many surmised this was due to his inability to capture the sorceress Nimueh who had been directly responsible for the queen's loss, but Berimund perceived more in his eyes. The king who had always seemed so valiant and fearless had lost confidence in himself.

Berimund kept mum, of course. He was the youngest of all the guards at just 21 with no established prestige to advise the illustrious King Uther. All the same, he wished he could do something to ease the man's pain. He wasn't sure what he would do if he had lost his Miriella.

The king's door creaked open. Berimund snapped to attention. Ever since Queen Ygraine's death, the king had been protected day and night. Berimund knew he'd been handed the unwanted night shift duty because he had no clout, but he considered it an honor nonetheless and he didn't want the king to think otherwise.

"You," the king addressed him gruffly.

"Sire?"

"I need..." The king looked bedraggled and helpless, dressed only in his night clothes. "A wet nurse?"

Berimund blinked at what he held in his hands—a squalling infant, crying out in pain. He started to speak, opening his mouth, then closing it. He should keep his peace and simply obey. But then the king prompted him.

"What is it?"

"I believe the wet nurse left but a few minutes ago, sire."

The king nodded, eyes bleary and concerned as he glanced at the infant.

"If I may suggest..."

"Yes?"

Berimund nodded at the babe. "May I take a look, sire?"

Uther seemed desperate for any help, thrusting the baby out at Berimund. In truth, Berimund had been quite impressed when the king sent the wet nurse away after the baby's feeding and refused any other help. No one knew why he wanted to be alone with his newborn son. It was common for kings to let their children be raised primarily by others. Berimund had suspected, though, when he'd seen the king holding his son and staring into his tiny face, that he bore a resemblance to his mother and maybe that eased the king's dark mind.

Berimund leaned his pike against a wall and approached, accepting the infant and cradling him into his chest. The king ushered him into the room and shut the door.

"I've tried everything," Uther insisted, running a hand through his nut brown hair.

"He's been fed," Berimund muttered thoughtfully. He set the baby down on the large bed, unwinding the swaddling cloth. He ran an eye over the infant, checking his fingers and toes for any stray hairs that may have wound around, cutting off circulation. The infant was a good sleeper, so his upset was unusual. Berimund heard a gurgle, and the baby clenched his fists and howled. Berimund smiled. "I think I might know, sire."

"Yes?"

Berimund draped the cloth over his arm and picked up the baby, turning him so he lay on his left side. He supported him along his right arm, then pulled him into his chest and began to walk up and down the room, gently rocking. The baby continued to cry.

"Are you sure this isn't hurting him?" the king inquired.

"He's already in pain."

"How do you know?"

"The type of cry. This will relieve it, I think." Uther looked on in amazement when the baby calmed and a loud puff of air sounded. Berimund grinned. "Gas, sire."

Uther stared for a moment longer than began to laugh heartily. He motioned to the bed where he sat and Berimund joined him. He made to hand the infant over, but Uther raised his hands. "Not yet. He seems to prefer you."

"I don't think so, sire. Any time you hold him he has eyes for no one else." Berimund heard a choked sob and turned his head away. "I was out of place, sire."

"No. No. It's all right. You're right. It's just...I cannot take my eyes from him. When he is not with me..."

"You feel alone."

"Yes. How do you know?"

Berimund turned the baby on his back, wrapping him up in the cloth. "I had several brothers and sisters. I was the oldest. Two died. I cannot help but think of their souls even to this day. There is something missing even now."

He caught Uther nodding out of the corner of his eye. "I am sorry for your loss, my lord."

Uther stood. "Thank you for your aid."

Berimund stood as well, peering into the far more content blue eyes of the babe. He handed him back to the king who cradled him as gently as he would a delicate flower. He made his way back to the door. "Sire?"

"Yes?"

"Has he a name yet?" In all the chaos of the queen's death, the baby's naming day had been postponed.

Uther smiled. He hadn't looked up, now entranced with the baby's tight grip on his finger. "Arthur."

"Prince Arthur," Berimund spoke. "A fine name. May he be as strong and resilient as yourself, my lord."

He shut the door as quietly as he could and took up his post once more. For the first time since he'd come here he sensed a ray of hope. The babe was a light in the king's darkness and perhaps Camelot would not remain shadowed forever.


	2. The Prat

Berimund crinkled his nose as a drop of sweat slid down its end. He wearily wiped it away and glanced at the sun. He'd stood here many times during his years in the king's service, and hated it every time. The other soldiers teased him when he drew the duty, taunting the man who still had to stand guard at the stocks.

Berimund sighed inwardly. His service had been faithful, steady, trustworthy. The king himself lauded him for these qualities. But what Berimund didn't possess was ambition. He never volunteered for extra service. He knew he should have to advance, but if he did, he'd be sent away on expeditions. The short patrols he joined were more than enough.

Berimund smiled in spite of the heat. His real trouble was he couldn't go more than a few days without desiring his Miriella and their three children. If he had to give up advancement in the guard, well, so be it. He had more authority anyway. He regularly trained new arrivals in their duties. In fact, he rather thought the king liked him as he was. He had become thoroughly dependable.

The boy in the stocks shifted and groaned. Berimund glanced over at him. He didn't have much more than twelve years to his credit. He'd been attached to the castle less than a month ago, his mother recently widowed and looking to find some means for his provision. His crime? Berimund wasn't sure. The crimes were inconsequential; it was the orders of punishment that fell on his shoulders.

Berimund raised his hand, an indication to those continuing to torment the lad to momentarily stop. He reached down to pick up a bucket he'd filled earlier. He strode to the front of the stocks and leaned down. He drew a cup of water out of the bucket and held it to the boy's lips. There was no reaction.

Berimund dipped a cloth, then wiped at the boy's forehead and cheeks. "Hey. Come on."

The boy blinked, but didn't look up.

"It's almost over. Hang in there. Drink." He lifted the cup again, and the boy raised his head and swallowed eagerly. When he finished, Berimund returned to his post and the miscreants who enjoyed punishing those in the stocks went at it again.

Berimund didn't disagree with justice, but the one who'd commanded the punishment galled him. Young Morris had been unfortunate in garnering the attention of Prince Arthur Pendragon, a boy who exuded a haughty, arrogant, over confident spirit. The king seemed the only one who could truly bring him in line, and he was away again, making a journey to visit an important ally. The prince had been left behind to continue his studies, but Berimund suspected he pursued them little if at all. What he excelled at was getting himself, and others, in trouble, like poor Morris who had probably done nothing more than fail a task put to him.

Laughter sounded down the lane. Berimund narrowed his eyes. Speak of the devil. Prince Arthur, surrounded by boys who fawned over him only for his status, appeared. They paid no attention to the stocks until the regular tormenters paused to bow their heads and let the prince pass. The prince glanced over at the last minute and stopped, roaring with laughter, probably just having remembered he'd sent Morris to the stocks.

Berimund seethed inside as the prince pointed the serving lad out to his friends. Some words passed between them, and Arthur leaned down to snatch up an object. "That'll be a lesson to you, Morris!" he shouted. He threw the object, then moved on with his friends.

Morris sucked in a gasp when the object hit dead on, and Berimund's gaze smoldered at the retreating back of the prince. He had hoped long ago this boy would make a good king. Instead, every need met and every thing desired given had led to pure selfishness.

Berimund picked up the wet cloth again and pressed it to Morris' bleeding temple. The prince had tossed a rock, something even the regulars knew never to do, especially when Berimund was on duty. It hadn't been a very hard hit, but enough. When he'd stemmed the bleeding, Berimund unlocked the stocks. He didn't care if the prince found out he'd cut the punishment short.

Berimund lifted the weakened lad into his arms and proceeded to carry him towards his mother's home. Several passers by peered on the boy with sympathy and others met Berimund's eyes, the truth passing between them, an understanding that no one appreciated the behavior of their prince. For a fleeting moment, Berimund considered talking to King Uther directly, but his duty was to obey commands, not to advise or give counsel. To approach the king would be a broach in etiquette.

Berimund reached Morris' home and called out to the drawn woman hanging up dried herbs outside, some she would use, most she would sell. The dark blonde turned, gasping and rushing to her son. Berimund let her kiss the lad's dirtied cheek, then moved inside, setting the boy down on a cot. His mother went to work, hardly listening to Berimund explain the circumstances and his opinion of them as she stripped the boy of his clothing and washed him down with gentle hands.

Berimund took his leave, his mind whirling with thoughts of a prince he had every desire to pull aside and teach a lesson he'd never forget.

* * *

When he arrived back in the courtyard, Berimund saw the king's carriage had returned. He sighed in relief, and his thoughts of speaking to the king about his son returned. Maybe if he was humble enough the king would permit him a moment of candor. The king was rational, wasn't he?

Well, there were some who suggested his wife's death had altered him, especially in regards to his pursuits against magic users, but Berimund had understood that. Magic had done much evil in the kingdom. Better to have it out than have it at all.

Berimund firmed his jaw. He could do it. He could talk to the king. They'd spoken a little over the years, pleasantries here and there. His loyalty spoke for itself, didn't it?

Berimund returned to the armory, replacing the bucket he'd taken to the stocks and removing his armor. Hm. If he was going to approach the king, he couldn't do it in sweat laden clothing. He made his way to the communal bath the soldiers shared. In the middle of the day, no one was present, and he savored the rare moment of peace as he sank into the waters and washed with a cake of soap. How should he begin his conversation? _I'd like to discuss your son._ Too casual. _My lord, I am concerned about the prince's unruly behavior._ Too confrontational. _Sire, your loss is still keenly felt, I understand, and the prince, I fear needs your guidance all the more._ Berimund let out a slow breath. Everything he could think of sounded unacceptable.

Berimund toweled off, dressed in fresh clothing, and began his search for the king. The grand hall and the counsel room were empty. He made his way down several halls and paused when he reached the one containing the king's chambers. It was private but almost unheard of for soldiers like him to enter without a command.

Berimund loitered for a moment, then took a few steps closer to the door. It was cracked open and he heard voices inside. He listened intently.

"Achard reports you've hardly read a book while I've been gone, your copy work is atrocious, and you insist on gallivanting around with less than savory peers."

"Father—"

"Be quiet!" King Uther shouted viciously. "You disappoint me every time I return! Sir Walaric tells me your skill with the blade suffers. You think too much of your pride and greatness and it destroys your concentration. If your mother had lived, what would _she_ have to say?"

"Father." The prince's voice was hushed.

"I don't want to hear it, Arthur! You are heir to this kingdom. You will stop spending yourself on frivolity. The next month, every waking hour will be devoted to your tutors. Camelot depends on _me_ to make you what you should be. Do you understand?"

Berimund heard no response. He imagined the prince nodding.

"Now, get out. You will dine with me tonight and I expect to hear you have done something worthwhile in the meantime."

Berimund retreated rapidly. He watched the prince exit from farther down the hall and his heart sank when the boy wiped a sleeve over his eyes and departed the other way, his shoulders slumped. Berimund didn't move. The prince was pretentious, conceited, prejudiced. All that was true and yet...

Berimund trudged back to the door, now cracked even farther. He was startled to observe the king sitting at his table, head bowed in his hands.

"Ygraine, help me. Come back to us." The king cover his eyes with a hand and wept.

Berimund stepped away. He'd intruded, gone too far. This was not his family nor his concern. He marched back down the hall.

* * *

When night had come, Berimund made his way home. He was greeted with a kiss and hugs. He sank down at the table. Miriella and the children chattered and he let their simplicity minister to his soul, until...

"Watkin says he wants to be a soldier like his father." Miriella beamed at their nine year old.

Berimund stared at his energetic oldest, imagining him in the charge of Prince Arthur Pendragon. "What about Marsilion?" he asked, referencing the local carpenter.

"I go there every day!" Watkin exclaimed.

"He's praised your skill."

"Uh huh."

"You could apprentice with him."

Watkin considered, tilting his head. "But you're a soldier."

"That doesn't mean _you_ have to be."

As Watkin seemed to be thinking it through, Berimund shared a smile with Miriella, then looked back to his son. "Watkin?"

His boy looked up at him.

"I'm proud of you."

Watkin blinked, then grinned shyly. He stuffed an apple into his mouth.

Berimund sipped at his soup, content that fate had seen fit to make him a simple soldier with a small home and a wife and children; not a king whose hands were forced to mold an heir to the good or harm of history.


	3. The Squire

Philip's head popped into the common room door. "One of the squire's taking on the prince and winning!"

The soldiers that had been chatting, relaxing, or playing games jumped up from their tables and bolted out into the hallway. Berimund scowled. He'd been hoping to win back two coin with the next toss of the dice. He rose with the rest however, wondering which one of the squires had been foolish enough to challenge Prince Arthur.

The prince had changed in the last year, and not really for the better. He'd buckled down to his studies apparently and certainly to his weapons training. Everyone knew how formidable he was; Sir Walaric, current commander of the knights, wouldn't shut up about his skill and claimed the credit. Still, the study and training hadn't curbed the arrogance. The prince crowed when he won, constantly bragging and rubbing the nose of his victim in his defeat at every opportunity. His peers had gone from sycophants to noble rowdies, many as skilled as he, reveling in their own prowess.

Berimund slowed as he reached the training yard. The low lying fence at its edge was hardly visible through the soldiers lining it, stretching necks to gawk at the current display and commenting here and there. Berimund found a small spot and shoved past shoulders to join them. His eyes roved the yard until he spotted the combatants, and then he gaped.

Berimund wasn't a knight, but respected enough to earn friends among them and informed enough to register shock at the prince's challenger. This lad had been attached to the royal knights at the age of twelve. He'd spent his previous years in his own part of the kingdom to the east where his noble father maintained control for Uther Pendragon. His house was appreciated, honorable, with decades of service under its belt. They knew their place, and this lad had seemed ever demure, so why the challenge now?

The prince's footwork was without fault as he slashed, parried, sidestepped, and twirled. Every time Berimund watched him he begrudgingly _enjoyed_ it. Prince Arthur might not be turning into the man Berimund wished to see as king, but without doubt had achieved warrior status even as a youth. For this reason, Berimund's surprise was the greater to behold a challenger just as agile and poised as his prince, light on his feet, elegant with his sword, and pressing his advantage.

The soldiers along the fence almost gasped as one when the prince stumbled backwards, barely catching himself. Berimund tilted his head to the soldier next to him. "Doesn't he have an unfair advantage?"

The soldier grinned. "The squire or the prince?"

Berimund raised a hand to acknowledge the touché. Still, he had meant the squire. The lad was at least five years the prince's senior, a good head taller, though not as broad shouldered, yet even that worked to his favor, augmenting his flexibility in the chain mail.

Berimund amended his concern when the prince came back stronger and the squire went on the defensive. He couldn't quash a bit of pride to see the royal heir so handy against one with more leverage. Until the prince faltered and crashed to the ground, his sword knocked from his grip and the squire's own pricking his armored chest.

A smattering of clapping sounded among the soldiers, but several refrained, uncertain if cheering were acceptable when their prince had lost. The squire withdrew his sword, muttered a few words, and reached down a hand to aid the prince's ascent. Prince Arthur pushed his offer away, rising on his own accord. His face gleamed beet red, and Berimund knew it wasn't just from the exertion of the match. He said something back, glaring at the squire, and stomped away from the training yard.

The soldiers dispersed, the excitement over, but discussing amongst themselves the finer points of what they'd witnessed. Berimund observed the squire stumbling exhausted to a bench, and another knight approaching him, the one assigned to his training, Sir Remont. Berimund trailed the rest of the soldiers back to the common room. Maybe he could win his coin back now.

* * *

Less than half an hour later, he left the common room content. He'd won his coin _and_ an extra five. Maybe he could pick up something special for Mariella. He had the rest of the day off. He could wash up and wander the market.

He paused as he approached the communal bath, hearing shouting and several thudding impacts. Sir Remont appeared, huffing, mouth screwed up, eyebrows drawn, brandishing a practice sword. He passed Berimund as if he were nonexistent. Berimund crept to the open doorway to find a curly head laid back along a tub's rim. It vanished momentarily, its owner sinking into the water, then appeared again along with a groan.

Berimund stepped inside, beginning to remove his arming coat, but his presence alerted the lad who turned abruptly so Berimund beheld him in profile. "Well done out there," he commented. The squire nodded, then bent his head and raised a hand cupped with water to the unseen side of his face.

Berimund came closer and the squire sank down farther into the water. "Never seen anyone challenge the prince and claim victory."

The lad spoke then, his voice soft and smooth, displaying good breeding. "I didn't challenge him."

Berimund cocked his head. "Oh?"

" _He_ challenged _me_." The tone turned bitter, and as Berimund's eyes slid to an empty tub in preparation for his own cleansing, they passed over the lad's left shoulder blade, revealing a bright red wheal. Berimund frowned. The lad hadn't been hit in the back during the match as far as he knew.

"How did that happen?" Berimund inquired, pointing. The lad raised his head enough to comprehend what Berimund indicated, but was letting his longer hair drape his features.

"Eh...Tripped."

Berimund squinted and his mind whirled. Impacts, Sir Remont, and this squire hedging. He wasn't stupid. He broke all protocol, not caring that the lad was noble, and thrust out his hand to grip his chin and turn his face towards him. Skin around the left eye revealed reddening that would soon bruise. The lad pulled away, but that exposed more of his back and several other welts. They were the width of a sword and all fell into place as Berimund recalled Sir Remont gripping his weapon as he trudged down the hall. The lad had been hit with the flat of a blade. Punished for daring to win.

Berimund stared sympathetically. "Sir Remont is a hard man." The lad looked away, but he needn't confirm it. Remont had a reputation for fawning over the king and his heir. Berimund guessed he'd been enraged that this victory had displeased the younger royal and might the older. "You should see the physician."

"No," the lad refused firmly.

"He can lessen the pain."

"I'll get in trouble."

Berimund stared for a couple more seconds, folding his arms across his chest. "Then come with me."

The lad's brows rose curiously. "Where?"

"Home."

* * *

Berimund thought it fortunate the children were out when he showed up on his doorstep with the squire. He explained the issue to Miriella in the briefest terms, and she tended the lad, dabbing ointment on his browning bruise and the swollen marks on his back, then using the last of their medicinal herbs to brew a pain relieving tea. By the time the children returned, crowding into the house and exuberant over the presence of a _real_ knight, even though the squire tried to explain he wasn't one yet, the lad was smiling again.

Berimund convinced him to stay for dinner, and he spent the time peppered with questions about knighthood and training. When the children had been tucked into bed, Berimund invited the squire out to the back garden. The summer night radiated heat, but a northern breeze made it pleasant. They sat silently for a time until the squire spoke up.

"Thank you for your hospitality."

Berimund nodded. "Our pleasure."

"I have to be honest," his eyes bore a hint of guilt, "I've been warned away from common born soldiers."

"Sir Remont?" Berimund inquired with a chuckle.

"Not just him. My father. Or, step-father."

"You lost your father."

The squire nodded. "Fighting for the king. I vowed to become a knight myself at his bier."

"Is your step-father like Sir Remont?"

"No. He's never laid a hand on me." The squire looked over at him, intelligent eyes reflecting surprise at his willingness to share.

"Anything you say, I won't repeat. You have my word."

The lad relaxed, leaning against the back wall of the house. "I miss home sometimes. My brother and sisters." His eyes flicked to the back door. "It's nice to be in company such as this again."

"Even common born." Berimund's eyes twinkled.

The squire laughed shortly. "Truth is, I didn't stay away from common born, not entirely."

"Oh?"

"My closest playmates were children of our maid." His cheeks flushed and Berimund tilted his head.

"One is a girl?"

The squire nodded.

"And you like her?"

"Can't. Won't. Besides, she's not attached to our household anymore. Her mother perished, and her father earned his place in a blacksmith's guild and left to find better work. But it wouldn't matter anyway."

"As she's not noble."

The lad bobbed his head.

"Well, you'll fare better here, then. Enough noble ladies to turn your head."

The squire smirked, then sighed. "If I don't get thrown in the dungeon first."

Berimund shifted on the bench they shared. "The king won't do that. He may be a strict man, but he'll consider your victory fairly won no matter what Sir Remont claims."

"I suppose."

"But..." Berimund prompted, sensing the equivocation.

"The prince. He'll make it difficult for me."

"Might. But I have a feeling _Sir_ Leon is going to be a better man than he."

The squire, Leon, glanced around. "That's dangerous talk."

Berimund shrugged, then clapped a hand on Leon's knee. "Should get you back. You'll need strength. You'll be sore tomorrow."

* * *

After Berimund dropped Leon off at the squire's barracks, he made his way to Sir Walaric's chamber. Light seeping underneath the door indicated he didn't sleep. Berimund's knock was answered with a gruff, "Enter."

Sir Walaric glanced up from a parchment at his desk. "Berimund."

Berimund bowed his head, newly glad his respectable service had earned him some recognition.

"What is it?"

"What did you think of the match today?"

Walaric's mouth pursed in a thin line. "More work must be done." He didn't say if that meant the prince or the squire.

"May I speak frankly?"

Walaric pushed back into his chair, eyes alight with curiosity. "Why? And yes."

"It was evident today Leon is a valuable warrior."

Walaric harrumphed.

"It would be a pity to lose one like him."

Walaric grimaced. "What rumor sent you here?"

Berimund blinked. "None. I only know the lad, and I'd hate to see him lost to us."

Walaric's fingers drummed on the desk. "The prince rashly asked for his removal. The king won't, of course, but life will be harder for young Leon."

"There's a call for knights to deploy to the border of Mercia for a time," Berimund hinted.

Walaric raised his eyebrows. "Yes."

"Might be just the experience a young squire needs."

Walaric smiled slowly. "It would. Sometimes I've wondered that the king hasn't made you one of us."

Berimund smiled back. "He can't. But even if he could, I think I wouldn't."

Walaric nodded thoughtfully and waved him away. "Be assured I don't let princes decide who is worthy of the king's service."

Berimund bowed again, backing out the door.

* * *

Two weeks later found Leon at Berimund's door, gripping his hand. "Wanted to say farewell."

The children clustered around him, bereaved to let their "knight" go. The squire had joined them for every dinner he could in the last couple weeks. He patted heads and slapped shoulders and assured he'd write.

Berimund lingered to watch Leon march down the lane and wave one last time. The children scattered to play, but Watkin, now ten, didn't budge. He laid a hand on his son's shoulder. The boy had grown closest to Leon, fully enamored of his ambitions and tales.

"How's your time with Marsilion?" Berimund asked, referring to his apprenticeship with the master carpenter.

Watkin shrugged. "Okay."

Berimund squeezed his shoulder. "Common born can't be knights in Camelot."

"I know," Watkin muttered dejectedly.

"So do the best you can elsewhere."

"Yes, father."

Berimund's gaze followed his son as he slumped away in the direction his oldest sister had taken. His thoughts fled to Sir Remont and Prince Arthur. Being common born had its own decided advantages. His son would never be within their reach.


	4. The Ward

Berimund marched along a corridor, peeking into every nook and cranny, cranky and grumbling. This was the _third_ time in two months. Couldn't the king get a handle on the child? Last time he'd found her holed up under a bed in a guest room that hadn't seen use in a year. No luck this time.

Berimund finished his quadrant of the search and returned to Huelin inside the king's council chamber.

"Berimund?" the captain of the guard inquired.

"She's not in the west wing." He tried not to look at the king. He could guess he and the child had clashed once again, and the royal would be fuming.

Another guard came running in. "Her horse is gone, my lord."

The king stood, and Berimund was forced to acknowledge his presence, surprised to catch a flash of guilt in his eyes before wrath returned. "Find her."

"Yes, sire," Huelin said. They all bowed their heads and left the room. Berimund meant to return to his regular duties, but Huelin called out to him.

"Berimund! You will join us."

He slowly turned. "Of course."

* * *

Riding in misty drizzle in chain mail was downright intolerable. The metal links intensified the cold, his arming coat soaked through, and his gloves slipped from his reins. With every step, he cursed the girl for taking off. Didn't she see what she had? Didn't she know how very lucky she was?

Berimund swore under his breath. The king should punish her harshly this time. Yes, he'd made a promise to her father, and Gorlois had been a great man. No one doubted that, but the king was too soft on the girl, letting her get away with things he never would have his son. Male, female, it didn't matter to Berimund. This was too much, and she needed a stiff reminder of her place.

Huelin paused ahead, consulting with a couple others at the front of the search party. Berimund heard him damn the loss of tracks. He took advantage of the momentary reprieve, leading his patient mare to a gorse bush so she could nibble a treat. He patted her neck and rubbed vigorously when her discontented snort produced a visible puff of air.

Berimund narrowed his eyes. The brush had been pushed back here. He dismounted, pacing several steps in. He raised his eyebrows and called out. "Her horse!"

Soldiers filled the small clearing. Huelin glanced every which way. "Her horse, but not her."

Berimund pointed at the ground. A trail of petite footprints had pressed into the damp earth.

Huelin shook his head. "She intended to mislead us."

Berimund nodded. The girl was clever, if not obedient. As he followed behind the men slashing at brush with their swords to follow the tracks, he thought of the girl when she'd first come to live in the citadel.

She'd been only ten, but her arrival caused a great deal of excitement and gossip. That Gorlois had perished was grievous, but the report that his daughter would take up residence in the castle brought hope. Finally a feminine influence would grace the citadel once more and smooth out the roughened edges of the king and prince.

Berimund snorted. How wrong they had been. From the moment she stepped out of the carriage antagonism and debate had been her way. She was gracious to servants and staff, but the king and prince she targeted for derision. At first, most put it off to grief and being forced to leave the home of her childhood, but the longer she stayed, the more stubborn she seemed. Four years had passed, and still she was a spitfire, the royal court having done nothing to charm her.

Not that the court ladies hadn't tried, but she resisted them. Word was after her mother died, she spent her time riding the wilds with her father, learning sword-craft and the specifics of battle and war, things a son should care more for than a daughter.

Huelin stopped after a hundred meters or so when he reached a green plain dotted with scraggly trees, wispy fog obscuring the view. A gut wrenching whimpering filtered through the mists.

"Arm yourselves," Huelin whispered.

Berimund unsheathed his sword, heart pounding. This was why he liked the castle. There was some excitement now and then, but you usually saw it coming. Out here anyone, or _anything,_ could hide anywhere.

A bleached standing stone appeared as they drew closer, and at its base, a green cloaked figure, forehead touching the rocky slabs bracing the bottom. The figure raised its head to look at them. They'd found the Lady Morgana, tears staining her cheeks, grief in her eyes. She turned her head away from them.

Berimund had expected Huelin to demand the ward get on her horse and return with them immediately, but now that they beheld her like this, in front of her father's grave... The soldiers glanced uncertainly amongst each other, and then all eyes turned on him.

Berimund stared back. Most of them were bachelors, and the three besides himself that could claim children had only very young ones. He sighed. It was up to him, then. He plodded over to the girl, and by the time he crouched down next to her and looked back, the other soldiers had retreated far enough away into the fog he couldn't see them.

"My lady?" Berimund prompted. "We have come looking for you."

"Leave me alone."

Berimund drew in a long breath. "We cannot, my lady. The king insists we find you and bring you home."

She turned her head, fixing fierce green eyes on him. "Camelot is _not_ my home." Her gaze returned to the stone pillar. " _This_ is my home. _He's_ my home." Tears brimmed in her eyes, and Berimund felt suddenly sorry his thoughts had been so hard on her. He wished Mariella were here. She always handled the tender emotions of their daughters.

"Gorlois was a good man," he attempted to console her.

"You knew him?" Morgana asked, piercing green depths honing in on him again.

"Enough to know he was good for Camelot."

Morgana sucked in a sharp breath and rested a hand on her collarbone.

"What troubles you?"

Her response was faint and pained. "I'm forgetting him. His touch. His voice." Her hand went to her face, covering it.

Berimund shifted, kneeling. "He is always part of you."

"How do you know?"

"Because I remember his arguments with the king. How they fought! But it was good for the kingdom, and that part of him is in you." Berimund smiled thinly. "You haven't granted the king a day of rest since you came here."

Morgana lowered her hand. "I...speak too much. The ladies tell me that. But my father told me to be strong. His last words..."

"Yes, my lady?"

"Be strong, Morgana. For me." She reached out to stroke the stone.

"You have been. It is a hard thing to leave all you know and love."

"Have you ever left everything behind?"

Berimund let his own eyes wander the stone. "My grandparents died in a lord's raid, and it was Uther who took retribution on the lord." He looked back to her. "The king is fair and just, my lady."

Morgana let out a sharp breath. "I can't agree."

"You may not, but he does care about you. He loved your father, and he loves you, so you must never believe Camelot does not want you."

"Do you have a daughter?"

"Two."

She smiled at him. "They are blessed to have you."

Berimund stared at her. If she were his own, he would have drawn her into an embrace. She was but a child, lost and fearful in a world that had dealt her a fateful hand. She wanted for kindness, not judgment.

Morgana sighed. "I will return." Berimund clasped her arm as she rose to her feet.

* * *

When they dismounted in the citadel courtyard, Morgana addressed Huelin. "I wish Berimund to accompany me."

Huelin eyed him. "Berimund."

He bowed his head briefly and took up position next to her, climbing the steps and heading to the king's chamber. They passed by Prince Arthur leaning against a statue.

"Back, Morgana? Father will clap you in irons this time."

"I'll have your head with my sword," she snapped back.

"Go ahead and try."

"I'm going to beat you again, Arthur Pendragon!" she shouted over her shoulder.

"Give it your best shot!" he yelled back, and his stomping footfalls moved away.

Berimund glanced at her scowling face and suppressed a smile. He supposed one good thing had come from her presence: Prince Arthur had met his match.

Berimund paused outside the king's door. "Do you wish me to enter with you?"

Morgana let go his arm. She lifted her chin. "No. Thank you for walking with me."

Berimund bowed his head and pulled back as she knocked and entered. There was no shouting or yelling. No chastising or threats. Uther asked after the reason for her absence. She simply replied, "I wanted to see father," and Uther gathered her in his arms, declaring how much he mourned Gorlois himself.

Berimund retreated to preserve their privacy.

* * *

That night, as the candles burned low and the children crawled into their shared bed, Berimund knelt near them.

"Father?" Helene, his keen eight year old inquired.

"I wanted to say..."

His youngest daughter at five, Nora, tilted her head. "Da, you're sad?"

He smiled gently. "No." He reached out to stroke each girls' cheek and pat ten year old Watkin on the arm. "I love you all. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, da," Nora giggled.

Watkin rolled his eyes. Helene slapped his arm. "What?" he groaned, rubbing his shoulder.

Berimund kissed each head, even Watkin who tried to squirm away, then let the curtain fall.

Miriella, curled in their own bed with two year old Tamas asleep in her arms, stared at him expectantly. "What was that about?"

He blew out the candle and snuggled in next to her. "I love you, and I never want to leave you." He kissed her cheek.

"Whatever happened today,"―he heard her smile in the dark―"I hope it happens more often."

Berimund frowned. It had turned out well, but drizzle and fog and chain mail and muddy boots and a backside sore from a ride on horseback? He dropped off to sleep pleading silently with the young Lady Morgana to reward his sympathy by never disappearing again.


	5. The Physician

Berimund craved the light filtering down into the dismal dungeon. He climbed the stairs, fighting the urge to to rush upwards into a world where pain didn't dominate existence and push past the men in front of him dragging their burden.

"Hurry for his sake," Berimund hissed. _And mine_.

Both the guards were newer and glanced at him with surprise, but attempted to obey his order. Not ten minutes ago he had been enjoying a game of chance with them. He'd descended to the lower parts of the castle to check on them; educating all new recruits fell to him these days. He found them dutiful, but bored, and he'd joined in the entertainment they devised to pass the time. All was smiles and laughter until two other guards appeared, fresh recruits as well, an older man held within their grasp and the king following.

Berimund breathed deeply of spring air when he reached the top landing, the wispy breeze of a cloudy day lilting through a nearby window. His escape was temporary. A low moan drew his attention. He motioned at the guards. "To the physician."

Berimund meant to stay behind. His presence was not required, but his boots unwillingly trailed them. It was an arduous journey, not for the muscular guards, but for the man between them who whimpered and groaned along the way. Berimund could hardly believe the man hadn't passed out yet. Once they reached the physician's door, he knocked twice. A swift "Come in" granted them entrance. He pressed the door open.

Berimund hadn't conversed much with Gaius, though he spied him at times traversing castle halls to aid the suffering with his medical skills. Berimund himself had never required them; the local healer in the lower town had proved good enough to meet his needs. He wondered briefly how old the physician was; he'd been here as long as Berimund could remember.

Gaius took one look at the man between the guards and pointed to a patient's cot on the right side of the room. They hauled the man over and lay him down carefully, then looked to their mentor. Berimund nodded to them. "You may return to your duties."

"Yes, sir," they replied almost simultaneously. Berimund followed them to the exit, but glanced back, his foot hovering on the threshold. He could spare a moment, just to ensure recovery would be possible. He pulled his foot back and shut the door, remaining inside the physician's chamber.

Gaius had retrieved a pot of warmed water off the fire. He dipped a cloth into it, then laid the linen against the man's back. The man whined and his legs shook. Gaius kept dunking the rag, rinsing it, then dabbing again and again. His expression was impassive as if this were a regular occurrence. He uncorked a small bottle. "Maeon, I need you to sit up." He gently prodded the cheek of the man.

"I'll help."

Startled, Gaius turned abruptly. "I didn't know anyone stayed behind. Is he to be punished further?"

Berimund shook his head and approached the cot, gripping the man's shoulders and pulling him to a sitting position. Their eyes met. Berimund expected accusation, but found only pain. Gaius held the bottle to the man's lips.

"Swallow it all," the physician commanded. The man complied. When he finished, Berimund settled him back down on his front. Gradually, the man's eyes closed, and his panting breaths turned deep and steady.

Gaius had moved to his worktable. Berimund settled onto a stool at a low lying table, elbow propped up, head resting on his hand, gaze on the sleeping servant.

"Guards don't usually stay," Gaius ventured. Bermind rolled his eyes to the physician. "I don't recognize the hand in this. The lashes are numerous, but precise."

Berimund swallowed the lump in his throat. " _I_ carried out the punishment."

"Ah."

Berimund's gaze roved to a line of shelves tacked to the chamber wall and cluttered with glass bottles containing a plethora of colors. When the king appeared in the dungeon with the servant in tow, he'd ordered the man taken down the hall to a cell. He'd then considered the newer guards, but shook his head slightly, apparently finding them unsatisfactory. His eyes came to rest on Berimund. "Follow me."

Berimund obeyed, trailing behind the king. Uther paused at a recessed alcove hung with various weapons and devices. He lifted a coiled whip off a peg, then handed it over to the soldier. Berimund read regret in Uther's eyes far less than anger. The king marched towards the cell.

Berimund held the whip uncertainly. When he entered the cell, he beheld the servant already chained to the wall, arms stretched above his head. Uther spoke succinctly, motioning at the man. "Thirty lashes." He stepped back to allow Berimund room to maneuver.

Berimund's heart twittered, panicky. He'd been trained in weapons of all kinds, including whips, but he'd only seen floggings, never dealt one out himself.

The servant trembled, the shackles clanking against the wall. "Your majesty, please, have mercy. I won't do it again."

Berimund glanced at Uther whose eyes had hardened. He spoke quietly. "I have given you enough chances." He gestured to Berimund to begin.

Berimund uncoiled the whip. Technically, it wasn't the worst of the lot Uther had chosen. Not multi-tailed, not knotted to add weight and impact, but it would hurt and the man would surely bleed. Berimund tried to steel his own nerves as he assessed the man's bare back. He'd been whipped before as evidenced by several older scars. Berimund felt the eyes of the king waiting on him. He took up a position he thought appropriate and drew his arm back for the first blow.

The rest of the event was a blur in Berimund's mind—the snap and thud of the whip, the yelps and sobs, the vivid stripes, and the lines of red dripping down quivering flesh.

"Do you know his specific crime?" Gaius' words drew Berimund out of his disturbing reverie. He shook his head and was surprised when the physician handed him a cup of herbal tea and sat across from him, setting a bowl on the table to stir its contents. Berimund took a long sip from the cup.

"You're Berimund."

Berimund met the physician's keen blue eyed gaze. "Yes."

"I don't think we've had much need to know one another, but you've been here since the prince's birth, I believe."

"My first year as guard," Berimund confirmed.

"Service to the king is not always easy." Gaius had lowered his eyes to the concoction he was stirring, but Berimund heard decades of experience in his tone.

"It's been hard for you?" Berimund asked, suddenly very curious about the physician he'd never gotten to know.

"Sometimes," Gaius confirmed. He sighed and looked up. "There is difficulty in ruling, isn't there? The needs of the people, their protection and sustenance, balanced with the wills and desires of the lords, and then your own household as well." Gaius' eyes shifted to the beaten servant. "Maeon has never been entirely virtuous."

"Shouldn't the steward concern himself with his behavior, not the king?"

Gaius looked back. "I suppose Uther could leave him to the steward, but I daresay he feels personally responsible for Maeon."

Berimund cocked his head.

"Maeon came into the king's service through his wife, Ygraine, as did I."

Berimund raised his eyebrows. "You were the queen's servant?"

Gaius nodded. "Bound to her household when I was but a youth. Maeon was brought in ten years after me, personal caretaker of the queen's stables."

Berimund had only ever seen the beautiful, golden haired queen from afar. "She liked to ride, then."

Gaius smiled, his eyes gone soft and distant. "One of her greatest delights, and Maeon took quite good care of her horses. After her death, he was never the same. He wasn't a perfect soul to begin with, but he's worsened over time."

Berimund let his eyes drift to the man on the cot, the whip marks on his back bright and ugly. "What do you think he did?"

"Does it matter?"

Berimund turned to the physician with wide eyes. " _Yes_."

"You are the king's man. You obey and don't question."

Berimund narrowed his eyes. Gaius' words didn't match his expression. "You don't believe that fully," he intuited.

"I should." Gaius stood, moving back to the cot and sitting on a stool, the bowl grasped in one hand. He dipped his fingers into it, then began gingerly painting the lash marks with the salve. "The king does what he feels is fair and just, and who are we to question it? What you've done today, it's not wrong. You can be assured Maeon deserved what he was given."

Berimund finished the tea and stood, trudging to the door.

"The flogging was public?"

Berimund halted mid-stride. "No."

"And the whip non-lethal."

Berimund supposed that was true considering the number of lashes. "Yes."

"There is still a heart within our king. He has preserved Maeon's dignity and life—for Ygraine's sake." Gaius paused in his application of the medicine to look over his shoulder. "You may be the hand of the king in this matter, but you were kind. I've never seen a whipping handled with such care." The physician turned back.

Kindness? Caring? Berimund opened the door and paced down the hall. Cautious, inexperienced more like it. How could the physician tell one man's bloodied back from another's anyway? Had his hand really done much different?

* * *

When Berimund ended his day, he passed by the council chambers on his way home. A meeting must have finished as advisers and lords poured into the hall. Berimund drew close to the wall to avoid jostling any of them. He'd reached the open door of the chambers when a voice called out.

"Berimund!"

He stopped to see the king beckoning him. He strode inside the room now empty and bowed. "My lord."

"I wanted to express my appreciation for your handling of my servant today."

 _My_ servant, not _the_ servant. As Gaius had implied, the king's responsibility.

"I had not seen you carry out such punishment before."

"My first time, sire."

"I see. You were quite meticulous and...I am grateful for it." There was that look again, regret, disappointment. Our king still has a heart, Gaius had said. Berimund knew that. He'd caught sight of it more than once over the years. Berimund nodded to Uther. It had pained him to hurt his beloved wife's servant as much as it disconcerted Berimund to obey the order. "I think I might call upon you again when I have need of a more exact approach."

Berimund's heart sank, but he firmed his jaw. He was the hand of the king in whatever way he saw fit, trusted to be just and fair. "It is my pleasure to serve you, my lord."

* * *

Night fell. Berimund retreated outside after the evening meal, seeking the solace of brilliant jewels on a cloudless night. Tiny footfalls sounded and seven year old Nora climbed into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her as she leaned her head against his chest and stared up at the inky velvet along with him.

"You see Hercules, da?" Her little finger pointed at the constellation, then lowered. "Tell me about him."

"He fought many monsters, overcame the fight with himself. He was a man of valor and wisdom, and he earned his way into the heavens."

"He's like you." Nora nestled closer into his embrace.

A soft huff escaped Berimund's lips. "I haven't fought monsters."

Nora giggled. "I mean heaven, da."

Valor. Wisdom. He was just a simple soldier. A hand of the king. Who whipped men until they bled and ignored their pleas for mercy. Did such men earn the right to immortality?

"You're good as Hercules."

Berimund kissed the crown of his daughter's head. _Kind and caring_ , he heard the physician's voice in his mind. It was justice. It was right. But it was also bitter.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Medieval mythology made Hercules allegorical, his struggle with monsters emblematic of a moral fight, and his entrance into heaven granted because of this strength.

Some readers may recognize this incident was mentioned in my story "Last Day in the Stocks" when Merlin inquired how Berimund got the job of whipping transgressors.

This chapter is a bit more nuanced than the others as Gaius is more quiet about his thoughts and background to a Camelot soldier especially in light of Uther's views of magic. I wanted to compare their situations, that they are both "hands of the king" to an extent and have to deal with the the good and the bad that comes with that. For Gaius, although he wouldn't say it to Berimund, he has faced and continues to face this especially in regards to the king's treatment of magic.

A shout out to wryter501 whose PM discussions led to the intriguing idea of what if Gaius came into Uther's household when he married Ygraine.


	6. The Maid

Berimund paced the line of new recruits. His eye for good men had become second nature, and Huelin had utilized his skill the last few years. His observation of their training session revealed weaknesses and strengths in weapons skill, but even more, he perceived the heart within each, who would lead the defense of the castle and who would let others suffer the brunt of an attack. And he'd seen them interact with the little squire boys whose menial tasks included handling weapons, hefting shields, and carting water.

Berimund stopped before a young man, dark of hair, gray of eye, face forward, but a hint of arrogance even in that supposedly respectful stance. This one had cackled at and taunted the boys, "accidentally" letting slip a sword from his grasp into theirs, nicking one of them. Berimund reflected. He supposed there had always been men like this, but they wouldn't come away unscathed, not on his watch.

"You will report to the steward," he commanded.

"Sir?"

"You are to serve him until he is satisfied, and I expect to hear he has found you flawless in the tasks he puts to you."

The soldier's jaw ground for but a second and he nodded shortly, moving out of line. Berimund grinned behind his back. It usually took only once with the stringent steward for recruits like him to gain an appreciation for those consigned the "lower" forms of work around the castle. One such girl was just passing the training field, Morgana's maid, her face screwed up in anger. He dismissed the guards to regular duties and called out to her.

"Guinevere?"

The girl slowed and turned. "Oh. Berimund." She looked disconcerted to see him, or maybe it was whatever caused her distress.

"Do you need aid?"

"No. I'm all right."

Berimund raised a brow skeptically.

"Truly. I am." She wiped at her sweaty forehead, and then ran it over her yellow overdress.

"You know you may ask for my help whenever you need it."

Her face warmed with a smile. "You and Miriella have been so kind to me. I do know and thank you." She continued on through the gate.

Three years had passed since she'd been attached to the king's household, a young girl of fifteen at the time. She had lived near Camelot all her life, growing up in the home of Sir Leon where her mother had been a maid. At her mother's death, her father had devoted himself to his metalworking, and favorable circumstances eventually led them to set up a humble workshop in the middle town. Then Sir Leon returned from Mercia, acclaimed and knighted for his deeds there.

Berimund made his way to the barracks, changing out of his armor, an early end to the day as a reward for his work with the recruits this week. As he washed up, he recalled the day Sir Leon knocked on their door. The children went wild, all yells and chatter and hugs. Their knight had returned and was a real _real_ knight now. The next day he returned for dinner and brought a young girl in tow, Guinevere.

Berimund smiled, changing into fresh clothes. It didn't take much to realize this was the girl the young knight had enamored when she was attached to his house. He could do nothing but praise her, and the girl smiled shyly, her cheeks flushing. She tried to turn the conversation to her brother Elyan who helped in the forge, but Leon always brought the stories back around to her. Not long after their dinner, the girl had been given a place in the royal household as a maid and Berimund was sure Sir Leon had something to do with it.

Personally, Berimund thought they would make a perfect match, but it would have been unseemly, a noble knight and a common girl. Pity. He'd watched her long enough to suspect she would have been a finer noble woman than many he'd met.

* * *

When Berimund reached home, he opened the door to behold Watkin hunched over on a stool, Miriella bending over him, a small salve jar in her hand, dabbing at his right eye. His boy didn't look his direction, but Miriella met his gaze immediately and her expression was anything but happy. Berimund strode up to his son to see a cut and swelling on the right side of his face.

"What is this?" he demanded.

Watkin kept his head bowed. "Nothing."

" _This_ ," Berimund thrust his finger at the area that would surely bruise, "is _not_ nothing. Were you fighting?"

"No, da," Watkin replied in a guarded tone.

Berimund sighed loudly. Watkin had passed into youth with the roar of a lion, an untamed, feral young one vying for head of the pack. More often than not he heard complaints from various townspeople over his boy's behavior—playing unwelcome pranks against hardworking citizens, nipping apples from a fruit orchard, or sneaking into the tavern to beg some harder ale off patrons during hours he had no business being awake. Berimund had hoped his apprenticeship to Marsilion would keep him out of trouble, but the boy ended up in it anyway.

"You can't keep on like this," Berimund shouted, throwing his hands up in frustration.

Watkin's eyes continued to study the floor.

"For the next week, you will keep to your mother's side when you aren't working with Marsilion. You will not be out of their sight."

Watkin did look up now. Berimund expected wrath, but saw panic. "Da, please. It won't happen again."

"Consider your punishment light," Berimund warned. Goodness, just last week he'd been called to flog another man, and if Watkin carried on misbehaving, well, Berimund resisted imagining him in the stocks with stripes across his back.

* * *

Three days passed. Berimund's anger faded, and Watkin obeyed his orders without deviation. Until today. Berimund had entered Marsilion's workshop, hoping to heal the rift Watkin's actions had caused between them and stroll home with his boy, but he wasn't there. "Left early," Marsilion informed him.

Berimund exited back into the lane, jaw clenched, face reddening. Left early. To do what? Run around and find someone else to beat up? Berimund stalked the streets, inquiring here and there, furiously tracking down his errant son. When he reached the blacksmith's, he heard familiar laughter. His temper flared, and he halted to peer into the shaded forge.

Watkin sat on a tall stool, hand extended, a passel of bluebells in his grasp. "Come on. Take 'em."

Berimund raised his eyebrows, shock banishing his anger as the maid Guinevere equivocated.

"Really, Watkin. You don't have to keep bringing me flowers. It was nothing."

"It wasn't. You haven't told anyone, and...you know...rescued me."

Guinevere smiled sweetly. "I guess, if you put it like that, I will accept them, but this is the last time."

Watkin grinned like a Cheshire cat as she grasped them. He fidgeted on the stool. "I thought...maybe...I don't know...maybe...I could come by and see you...tonight...walk or something?"

Guinevere lowered the flowers. Berimund read the reluctance and regret in her expression and felt suddenly sorry for his boy. He'd been in this very position near his age and couldn't help but relive the flame of a first love turned to disappointed rejection.

"You are a fine boy," Guinevere spoke kindly, then bit her lip. "But...I don't like you that way."

Watkin's head drooped. "Oh."

"Not that I don't like you at all. We can be friends."

Watkin's head pulled back up. "Friends."

Guinevere tipped her head to the side with a sad smile. "If it's all right with you."

"Yeah," Watkin agree with a bob of his head. "It's all right."

"You'd better get home."

Watkin stood, running sweaty palms down his trousers.

"You really should tell your father about what happened. He would be proud of you."

Watkin twisted his lips. "But _I_ can't be."

"You should. You really should."

He moved to exit and Berimund ducked around the corner of the workshop. Watkin passed his hiding place back into the lane, heading towards home. Berimund wandered into the forge.

Guinevere had turned her attention to her father's tools, he supposed doing some work for him. He cleared his throat. She looked up and stood abruptly, her eyes glancing at the bluebells laying on her father's workbench.

"You need my father?" she asked hurriedly.

"No. I was just outside. I heard Watkin speaking."

Guinevere rocked nervously on her feet. "I know he was supposed to be at home. I'm sorry. Please don't punish him. I...asked him to come here."

Berimund stared, then chuckled. Guinevere's brows lifted in surprise. "That is a lie." She bit her lip again, a habit Berimund was coming to see. "I heard your conversation, and I would like to know how my boy ended up with a bruise."

Guinevere considered him a moment, then her chin locked defiantly as she raised it. "I will tell you, but you cannot reveal you know to Watkin."

Berimund forced himself not to smile to avoid the assumption he mocked her. This slip of a girl, unafraid of a soldier years her elder and higher in status. It was this kind of thing that made him think of her as far more than a simple maid. "I promise you I will not tell Watkin."

Guinevere's shoulders dropped as she relaxed. "The other day, I was on an errand in the lower town and some rowdies followed me, hooting, making comments. You know the type."

Berimund nodded.

"Watkin came to my defense. He stood up to them when one tried to lift my skirt." Her cheeks blossomed a little in embarrassment. "And he got in a fight with them all for my honor." She shook her head. "The honor of a nobody."

As Berimund looked on her now, he couldn't think this girl was destined to be a nobody. "He could have told me."

"Well, it turned a little embarrassing for him." She bit her lip a third time. "He wasn't doing so well, and I might have grabbed a staff from a citizen and come to _his_ defense." An image passed through Berimund's mind of Watkin laid out flat from a punch and Guinevere standing before him brandishing a staff. "They were taken aback by that and ran off. Watkin didn't want you to know, but..."

Guilt clenched Berimund's stomach, the chastising words he'd spoken to his son three days ago filling him with regret. "But?" he prompted quietly.

"I'm glad you know. He is a good boy at heart, like his father." Her dark eyes glittered. "He's rough around the edges, but aren't all boys at this age?"

Berimund repressed a smile again. She was only a couple years older than his fifteen year old son.

"Be patient with him."

Berimund nodded thoughtfully. Only two years difference. Not too much for love. If only she had an interest, what a companion this girl would be for his boy. He motioned at the flowers. "He gave you those."

Guinevere smiled and picked them up. "Poor boy. I wish I could return to his feelings, but..."

"You don't have any."

"No," she sighed, then peered intently into Berimund's eyes. "I've already had a talk with him, after the fight. No more misbehaving. He says he won't. For me."

"Thank you."

"It's no trouble."

Berimund turned to leave, then a thought occurred to him and he paused. "You are a good woman," he stated, even though she was still little more than a girl. "The man with you at his side will be blessed."

Guinevere's eyes widened in shock. "Eh...Well..."

"Is there a man that has caught your eye?" Berimund felt awkwardly out of his depth, but figured he could give it a try for their knight.

She laughed. "Heavens, no. Not yet."

"Leon is a very good man."

She smile wistfully. "Leon's a brother if anything."

Berimund smiled, but inwardly saddened. Such a pity. He could accept convention thrown to the wind for those two. "Maybe Prince Arthur, then," he teased to ease his intrusion into her private life.

Gwen chuckled. "If it were possible, I wouldn't even then. I don't think he's ever going to change. A conceited, vainglorious bully." Berimund grinned. Gwen suddenly looked afraid and touched her hand to her mouth. "Oh my. I shouldn't have said that. Forgive me."

"You're not the only one who thinks that," Berimund reassured her. "Pray for us, Guinevere, that our prince becomes more than he is or heaven help Camelot."

They shared a subdued laugh as Berimund stepped into the lane. He sighed as he headed home. Just this morning, Morris had passed by him in the castle halls, a darkening bruise on his forehead. The prince had thrown a goblet at him again. Poor Morris, always the target for the bad moods of the kingdom's heir. _Someone_ needed to change the boy destined to rule over them, and he had a feeling Guinevere would face even the prince with the bravery of a knight and a tongue as sharp as any sword. The love of such a woman could change many a man.


	7. The Servant

Berimund braved the howling wind threatening rain, navigating the dark by a shaft of lantern light. Habit guided his feet, the route to the castle second nature. He passed guards on watch at the gates who nodded to him when he identified himself. He continued on, hurrying as fast as able to a stairwell, climbing, every step increasing the rapid beat of his trembling heart. He reached a landing, then a hallway, and finally the door he sought. He knocked briskly.

The door creaked open to reveal a boy with mussed raven hair holding a sleeping shirt in one hand, and as he was bare-chested, Berimund guessed he'd been heading to bed.

"Berimund," the boy exclaimed, widening the gap for him to enter. Berimund did, eyes darting around the royal physician's chambers, but not finding the man he desperately needed.

"Where is Gaius?" he asked frantically and the boy's brow furrowed.

"He's in Chetsford. They have a sweating sickness. He'll be gone for several days."

Berimund blinked watery eyes. He wasn't used to breaking down and didn't intend to in front of a boy.

"What is it?" the boy inquired with concern.

Berimund's mind whirled and he didn't respond. He could ride to Chetsford. Bring the physician back. But would he willingly leave a suffering village for one young woman?

"Tell me what's wrong." The boy's hand on his arm brought Berimund back to the room.

"Helene. She's been sick. Our healer has tried for a week, but nothing has worked." A lump lodged in his throat. "She's dying." He hadn't yet spoken the truth aloud, and its stark arrival hit him so hard he wavered on his feet. The boy caught his wrist and directed him to a stool, gently pulling him down.

"Stay here. I'll be back." He left the room for his own small living quarters. Soon he returned, fully dressed, wearing a characteristic blue shirt, red neckerchief, and rust jacket. He began filling his satchel with medicine bottles and herb pouches.

Berimund observed his motions in a daze. "What are you doing?"

The boy slung the satchel crosswise over his shoulders and strode over to him, gripping his arm to aid his ascent. "I'm going back with you. I can help."

"You?"

"I've watched Gaius."

Berimund stared at the boy in surprise, evaluating his hopeful gaze and confident stance. He mainly saw the boy trailing Prince Arthur these days, or perhaps he thought so simply because he'd gone out of his way to pay particular attention when the servant appeared in the prince's presence. "You're apprenticing with him?"

"Something like that. Come on." The boy opened the door and dashed into the hall, Berimund hot on his heels.

* * *

It took less time to make it back to Berimund's home, the wind blustering into their backs about knocking them off their feet. The rain had held off, though, and Berimund was thankful for small blessings despite his anguish. When they entered, Miriella rose from beside the bed in the main room, running a confused eye over the boy.

"Where's Gaius?"

"He's in Chetsford to heal a sickness," Berimund explained as he unclasped his cloak and hung it over a peg. The boy went right to the table, unslinging his satchel and removing its contents.

"Why bring Merlin?"

"He's watched Gaius. He can help," Berimund replied, hiding his own uncertainty.

Miriella stepped up close to him, speaking under her breath. "He's only a boy."

"What choice do we have?" Berimund whispered back helplessly. He looked over Miriella's shoulder to Merlin already at Helene's bedside, assessing her. Miriella moved away to the fire and another pot of water she'd set to boil, eyes heavy with unshed tears.

Berimund pulled a stool up to the end of the bed, watching Merlin's examination keenly. The boy's brow was knit, his eyes bright as he took stock of the condition of their daughter. Helene's breathing came in shallow, staggered pants. Her cheeks were hollow, her face waxy, and she shook under the blanket. A week ago she'd stood in this very room, giddy with excitement over her promise of marriage to Leander, a local candle maker. The first of Berimund's children to wed _if_ she lived.

Berimund covered his eyes with a hand and coughed. Footsteps alerted him to the boy shuffling back to the table. He lowered his hand to see Merlin grabbing a clean bowl from a shelf and then pouring bottles and shaking pouches into a mixture. His gaze traveled to a curtain drawn back revealing his younger children, eleven year old Tamas and fourteen year old Nora, asleep in the shared bed. Watkin hadn't returned from work. Probably in the tavern. Berimund couldn't fault the young man. What was happening here pained them all, and they dealt with it in their own ways.

Merlin returned. "Help me sit her up."

Berimund stood, sliding his hand under Helene's shivering form and pushing her up. Her eyelids fluttered open, her gaze roving aimlessly. Merlin held a cup to her lips. "Come, my girl," Berimund encouraged. "Drink."

Helene blinked once, twice, then opened parched lips. Swallowing came slowly, but she managed it all. Berimund gingerly laid her back down. She shuddered and sighed and closed her eyes.

"Do you know what ails her?" Berimund asked.

"I'm not sure."

"Will the medicine help?"

Merlin turned the cup round and round in his long fingers, concentrating on Helene. "We'll have to wait and see."

* * *

Berimund startled awake, raising his head from the table. The shutters rattled and rain pummeled the roof. He turned his neck side to side, stretching out stiffness. Miriella slept in the chair in the far corner, head bowed, breathing deeply. He looked to the bed. Merlin knelt next to it still, alert as Berimund could perceive by the flickering light of the hearth and a candle on its stand near the bed.

"How is she?" he ventured.

Merlin didn't look at him. "Not well." He heard the emotion in the boy's strained response.

Berimund poured water from a pitcher and reached out. "Take this."

Merlin turned, eyes glossy as he accepted the cup and drank. He lowered the cup to his lap and focused on Helene. "You're a good father," he spoke quietly.

Berimund, unused to such praise, diverted his gaze when Merlin looked back at him.

"You've been so good to all your children. I've noticed."

Berimund's breath caught in his throat and he wiped at his eyes.

"I...lost my father five months ago."

Berimund moved his attention back to Merlin whose own eyes glistened with tears. "I thought... some have said you only have a mother." And some, especially nobles, had surmised the boy a bastard, but Berimund kept that tidbit to himself.

"I didn't grow up with my father. He left before I was born."

Berimund didn't usually pry into other people's secrets, but the lateness of the hour, the grief in his heart, and the boy's vulnerability opened his mouth. "Why?"

Merlin studied the fire. "To protect my mother. He was a hunted man...unjustly," Merlin added at the end to clarify.

"So you never knew him?"

"I found him and he died not long after."

Berimund wrung his hands. "I'm sorry."

"So am I." Merlin stared wistfully at Helene again. "I'd like to think if he'd lived, he'd have been as dedicated as you. I think he would."

Berimund wasn't sure how to respond to such a compliment.

"I've seen you watching me," Merlin divulged.

Berimund raised his eyebrows.

"You think Arthur's going to get me in trouble. He won't." Merlin smiled. "Not purposefully."

Berimund stared, thinking back almost two years now. Merlin had arrived in Camelot with little notice, but made his mark within the week, saving Prince Arthur from a sorceress assassin. He'd been named the prince's manservant as reward. Berimund had known the boy by acquaintance as he traipsed back and forth all over the citadel, sharing greetings and at times a word here or there. Until he'd been ordered by his king to punish the lad.

That little event had ate at him, especially since he'd learned afterwards Merlin had ended up in trouble supposedly because he'd forgotten to inform the prince about a meeting with the king. Such forgetfulness had occurred one too many times for Berimund to believe it the boy's fault. More likely the arrogant prince was taking advantage of the servant like he had Morris. Berimund had kept his eye on Merlin, willing to step in if needed and avoid a repeat of his lash used against the lad.

"He's a good man," Merlin insisted. "And he'll be a good king we can follow."

"He's skilled with a sword," Berimund conceded. "He confronts our enemies. Does what any king would." _But that doesn't necessarily make a good man_ , his unspoken words declared.

"He has a pure heart," Merlin asserted. "You remember when the crops died and the water dried up?"

Berimund nodded. How could he forget? He'd had to ration his own family and suffer watching them come close to starvation. Some rumored Prince Arthur himself had been the cause of the magical attack, having killed a unicorn, and even though Berimund wasn't one for superstition, the coincidence was too close to discount it. Whatever the case, Prince Arthur had taken off to confront the cause, and when everything had changed over night, the king had declared the prince successful.

"A sorcerer tested Arthur to save us."

Berimund lifted an eyebrow. "You trusted a sorcerer?"

"What else could we do? Camelot needed salvation."

Berimund pursed his lips, but nodded slowly. He supposed a magic wielder dictating the solution to a magical problem made sense. He didn't know too much about such things, really.

"The sorcerer used me to test him. Had us sit at a table with two goblets of liquid, one poisoned, one not. He said we each could only drink from one goblet, but the contents of both had to be drunk to break the curse on Camelot."

Berimund stared intently, entranced like a child worried about the hero in a bedtime story.

"I said I'd drink. We need Arthur, but I'm just a servant. Arthur tricked me, poured one goblet's contents into the other and drank it all. To save me. To save his people."

"He's not dead," Berimund murmured.

Merlin smiled. "The liquid contained only a sleeping draught really. A test to see what he would give for us. He'd give his life."

Berimund folded his arms over his chest, ruminating. "He did stand up against the king's tax when he was enchanted by the troll."

"Because he _is_ a good man," Merlin reiterated.

Berimund didn't answer.

"Anyway, you don't have to look out for me. I'm safe with Arthur."

"If you say so."

Merlin turned back to Helene when she gasped. The wind screamed, lashing the house with rain. He lay a hand on her forehead. "Her fever's worse."

Berimund moved from his seat to kneel next to Merlin, reaching under the blanket to grasp Helene's hand. "She was to be married. Become a wife. Have children." He choked, bending over to lay his head next to his oldest girl. He felt a hand on his arm, and Merlin's tone grew firm.

"Let me try something else." The boy left his side. Berimund heard the rustling of bottles and a spoon mixing in the bowl. Merlin returned. Berimund lifted his head to watch him lay a poultice across her collarbone, its pungent odor filling his nose. "It can ease breathing," Merlin explained. "Clear her lungs and make her stronger to fight the sickness."

Berimund pulled back the edge of the blanket to tenderly kiss the back of Helene's hand. At the same time Merlin mumbled words he didn't recognize. "What did you say?"

"An old prayer," Merlin whispered. "I heard my father speak it."

Berimund held tighter to Helene, hoping whatever god Merlin appealed to might see fit to intervene on her behalf.

* * *

Berimund rocked when his shoulder was hurriedly shaken. He brought his head up from the table once more. Miriella stood over him, tears gracing her cheeks. _No_. "Is she..."

"Alive. Better." His wife leaned into him, arms around his neck. He rose as she let go and dropped to his knees next to the bed.

"Father," Helene muttered hoarsely. Berimund smoothed her hair back, noting the color in her cheeks, the cooling of her brow, and the weary smile on her lips.

"My daughter! My girl!" He laid a kiss to her brow. As he pulled back, he searched for Merlin and spied a pair of feet sticking out from behind the end of the bed. He stood, Miriella taking his place. Berimund walked over to the boy to discover him curled up and asleep.

"Merlin?" he touched the boy's upper arm.

The servant's head jerked up and his eyes opened. "Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. Just wanted to rest a second."

"She's come back to us."

"What?" The boy sat up, rubbing at his head. He slowly stood, Berimund supporting his elbow to aid him. He moved to the side of the bed, gazing on Helene.

Miriella grasped the boy's hand. "You saved her."

Merlin smiled lopsidedly. "Gaius. I just used his knowledge."

"But if you hadn't been here, she would have died," Berimund exuded gratefully. "Thank you."

Merlin dipped his head at the praise, then glanced at the light filtering through the window. He dashed to the table, refilling his satchel. "I've got to go. I was supposed to wake Arthur before dawn. I'll come back later to check on her." He slung the satchel over his head, making for the door. Berimund met him, hand on the door handle.

"If he wants to punish you, send for me."

"It's okay," Merlin assured. "I'll probably have to duck a goblet or two, but I've gotten good at dodging." His eyes twinkled as he grinned to meet his ears.

Berimund chuckled, opening the door and watching the lad rush down the street. He wondered if Prince Arthur understood what a loyal servant he'd been blessed with. If not, he was as stupid as they came. Berimund's ears burned. He shouldn't think of his future sovereign that way. Hadn't Merlin claimed the prince had a pure heart?

Whether Prince Arthur truly comprehended or not, Berimund did. He shut the door, overwhelmed with gratitude that his daughter lived, all because a compassionate servant had paid enough attention to his physician mentor.


	8. The Drunkard

**Author's Note:** Shout out and thank you to Doberler whose brainstorming session with me led to so many good ideas for this chapter! Also note, a few lines in this chapter come from the show.

* * *

Berimund rarely frequented the mid-town tavern or any tavern for that matter. He'd seen the inside of such places more in his younger, free-spirited days. Then he'd married, had children, and gained respect in the king's castle. He represented the law and leadership of the kingdom and intended to embrace the decorum befitting his station, not to mention be a staid role model for his family.

However, today had been strenuous for all his men, especially the newer recruits. The mêlée would take place in two days time and heightened security called for extra training. He'd put his men through their paces and attended more meetings than he cared to recall. When several of the captains had filed out of the latest council, Hew had cajoled him into joining some of them in the tavern. "Just one drink to loosen up," his friend had argued.

Berimund had stopped by home on the way and Miriella encouraged him to go ahead. Watkin was supping with Marsilion's family, the child growing in Helene's womb sapped her of energy to visit them in the evening hours, and Tamas hadn't returned from his own apprenticeship yet. Nora had paused her preparation of a simple meal to kiss his cheek and inform her "da" she wouldn't mind his absence either.

So it was Berimund found himself sitting at a table, a fine tankard of mead before him, friends and colleagues around him. They ate, drank, talked, and rested their weary souls. When the conversation lulled, Berimund glanced around the inn, amused at the younger sorts enjoying this night. He'd grown old, he realized. Here his group sat, quietly chatting, laughing now and then, content to enjoy good food and company without the raucous debauchery so common in younger years. A group of men on the other side of the inn exemplified the younger mindset.

Several at more than one table had continued to order various spirits and several dozens of pickled eggs. And although each had imbibed their fair share, one of them in particular seemed bent on outdoing them all. He'd also garnered most of their attention, randomly chattering on and on to the delight of his friends. He was the only one of the lot Berimund couldn't name. A visitor or newcomer to town, then.

The man in question suddenly howled with laughter, and Berimund couldn't help but smile. He might not be able to control his vices, but his laugh was catching regardless. He seemed so jovial, umber eyes shining, mouth grinning. His hair grown longer fell into his face, and he flung it back with a toss of his head.

"Should he drink much more?" Hew wondered from beside Berimund.

Berimund turned back to his table. "Rickert will see him out before he's too far gone." The innkeeper didn't mind a bit of fun, but he kept close tabs on his patrons, unwilling to allow the destruction sometimes wrought when mead undermined self-control and tempers flared.

One of the others at his table, Dennis, lifted his tankard and pointed it towards Rickert. "He's already thinking of handling it."

Berimund observed the innkeeper, whose critical eye and pursed lips revealed his inner thoughts. Rickert left his counter, placing another meal at a patron's table, then approached the inebriated man. "Think you've had enough."

The man stood, shaking out his hair once more and draping an arm over Rickert's shoulder. "Just getting started, my friend." He grinned widely.

Rickert shook the man's arm off. "You need to pay and leave."

The man opened his mouth to answer and then stalled comically. Someone else had just been departing the tavern and the man's eyes widened when he viewed the streets beyond. "Hey! I know that princess!" He staggered towards the door and put a foot out of it, yelling, "My lady Gwen!"

This was too much for Rickert, who rushed after him, grabbed his arm, and swung him around. "You trying to leave without paying?" Rickert didn't seem to care the man had inches over his shorter build.

"Pay?" the man murmured in confusion, eyes swiveling back to the door. "There she is in all her glory!"

Berimund glanced at the door to behold Gwen staring at the man with a mixture of amusement and confusion.

"I don't care about a woman's glory. Coins is all I want."

The man now sniggered. "Haven't got any."

Rickert's face began to grow red. Berimund stood, striding over to the man. Things were going to quickly get out of hand without intervention. "A moment, Rickert." He addressed Gwen. "You know him?"

"Only by acquaintance really, but he's a friend of Merlin's," the maid informed him.

"Merlin?" Berimund raised a skeptical eyebrow, surprised the prince's manservant had such a rowdy friend.

"He's just come here recently. Saved Prince Arthur's life actually."

"See?" the young man drawled next to Berimund. "I'm a hero."

Rickert shook the man hard. "You ain't no hero in my inn."

"Should I...get Merlin?" Gwen stammered.

Berimund nodded to her. "That would be best."

Gwen turned and disappeared.

"Wait! Don't leave me! You're the light of my life!"

Rickert shook the young man again, and Berimund grasped the man's opposite arm. "It'll get handled, Rickert. Let him go for now."

The innkeeper stomped back to his counter, but continued to fume. Berimund directed the man to an empty table and sat him down so he could lean back against a wall. " _You_ saved Prince Arthur."

The man snickered. "Didn't mean to." He pulled at his pant leg, hiking it up. "Got this for the trouble."

Berimund beheld a bandage and recognized Gaius' handiwork. Well, he'd been seen by the royal physician at least. One of the "friends" the man had made stumbled over and thumped a tankard in front of him.

"Ah. That's what friends are for!" He reached for the tankard, but Berimund picked it up and shoved it into the hand of the one who had brought it.

"Sit down," Berimund commanded in his most authoritative tone. The "friend" scurried away. "Merlin is your friend?" he addressed the man.

"Good boy. Good lad. Gave up his own bed for me to sleep in."

Berimund shook his head. So it was Merlin's compassion that had linked him with such a person. "He is good, and I don't want to see him taken advantage of."

The man grinned. "I'm a hero."

Berimund rolled his eyes. "Yes. I already heard that."

"Gwaine the hero."

Gwaine. So that was the name of this hapless drunkard who had apparently saved Prince Arthur and Berimund assumed while sober. He stopped talking and spent the rest of the time waiting for Merlin keeping Gwaine from chugging down more ale.

The door finally opened to reveal a concerned Merlin followed by a worried Gwen. Gwaine jumped up from the table. "Merlin!" He slapped the boy on the back and Merlin about fell over with the force of it. "And the princess." He bowed tipsily to Gwen. Merlin looked to Berimund who rose to explain.

"He claims he saved Prince Arthur. I think he's been celebrating a little too much."

Rickert had appeared, jabbing a finger in Merlin's face and shoving a parchment into his hands. "He owes me!"

Gwaine stumbled forwards and the "friend" who had tried to hand him the tankard caught him before he fell face first on the floor.

"You drank all this?" Merlin asked incredulously.

Gwaine continued to grin ridiculously. "With some help from my new friends!" he exclaimed, earning a cheer from those who had benefited from his celebratory mood.

"He says that he hasn't got any money," Rickert growled. He abruptly grasped Merlin by the jacket, hauling him onto his tiptoes. "So it looks like you'll have to pay."

"I can't afford this!" Merlin protested.

"You'd better find someone who can," Rickert threatened, lowering the servant. Gwaine guffawed and fell over. Merlin looked put out and apologetic.

Berimund stepped up to his side. "How much is it? Maybe I can pay it."

"No," Merlin interrupted, scanning Gwaine. "He really did save Arthur." His gaze came back to rest on the livid innkeeper. "And _Prince_ Arthur will pay it. You can send the bill to him."

Rickert stared hard at him.

"He's the prince's manservant," Berimund reminded the innkeeper. "And a man of his word. I guarantee it."

Rickert shoved his finger into Merlin's face one more time. "You'd better be, or I'll take what I'm due out of your hide."

"I am a man of my word. I promise," Merlin swore. "You'll get your coin." The innkeeper shuffled away. Merlin nodded gratefully to Berimund. "Thanks."

Berimund looked at the man chuckling on the floor. "You sure he saved our prince?"

"He did."

"Wouldn't have believed it if you didn't say it. Need help with him?"

"I can take him back with you," Gwen chimed in to Merlin.

"We've got him," Merlin assured Berimund. He pulled Gwaine off the floor and left the inn with Gwen.

Berimund wandered back to his table, supposing even drunks could do something good once in a while, though he rather wished he'd seen the man's claim to heroism for himself.

* * *

Two days later, Berimund got his chance. He'd been occupied most of the mêlée, but when the crowd had erupted in a frenzy, he'd slipped in next to Watkin standing along with other spectators behind a wooden barrier. His son gushed, explaining the event had come down to two competitors against Prince Arthur, then a wounded fourth had risen and stood back to back with their prince to defend him. Berimund had watched the finish of the match with bated breath. The fighting was tense, but over quickly. Prince Arthur and the fourth knight made short work of the other two combatants, and good riddance, too, as a jab from one of their own swords used against them revealed they'd wielded sharp weapons instead of dulled ones, a violation that shocked the crowd.

Berimund felt a strange surge of pride when Prince Arthur dropped his sword and removed his helmet, yielding to the fourth knight who had aided him. Then he about gasped when the man pulled off his own helmet, revealing the drunkard from the tavern. Rumor was he'd left Camelot, exiled for some incident involving the honor of knights. Berimund had determined the previous rescue of the prince a fluke of the man's character, but staring at the wounded Gwaine who had saved Arthur a second time, he figured he'd judged too hastily.

King Uther immediately ordered Gwaine's arrest. Berimund had glanced at the king's box, wishing their ruler might have at least given him the decency of submitting himself rather than seizing him so harshly. He wasn't privy to what was decided in the council chamber, but as he had been commanded to guard the door, he heard the indistinct yet raised voices of the king and his son and witnessed Prince Arthur's downhearted expression when he emerged. Uther called out to Berimund then and tasked him with handling a delicate matter.

Berimund waited for Gwaine, catching him just as he exited the citadel's gates. "Gwaine."

The young man tossed back his hair again, eying him suspiciously. "Do I know you?"

Berimund chuckled. "I was there the other night in the tavern. We talked. A little."

Gwaine flashed his contagious grin. "Sorry, I don't remember you. Did I buy you a drink?"

"Not me."

"Do you want one now?"

Berimund laughed again. "No." He held out several pouches and a few more lay at his feet. "You saved Prince Arthur's life twice. The king extends this reward."

Gwaine lifted a haughty chin. "Couldn't stoop to give it himself."

Berimund tilted his head. "You understand, then."

"I don't want it." He made to move on, but Berimund stepped in front of him.

"It's two hundred gold coins."

The man who seemed like nothing could ruffle him stared with wide eyes. "Two hundred?"

"He values his son," Berimund insisted.

Gwaine shook his locks and inhaled a long breath. "Give it back to the king." He began to skirt around Berimund, but the soldier matched him, preventing forward progress.

"Our prince is worth nothing to you, then."

Gwaine met his eyes. "He was worth dying for," he mumbled.

"Then accept the reward. Give it away to those who need it if you refuse to use it yourself." Berimund had sensed in this man's bravado a cover and understood why a boy like Merlin would befriend him. Underneath was someone who cared for others more than himself.

Gwaine slowly lowered his bag, accepting the pouches and stuffing them inside. He slung his bag back over his shoulder. "Camelot is blessed, you know. Someday Prince Arthur will take the throne and be better than his father. There's true nobility in him."

Berimund raised his eyebrows at the unexpected and vehement declaration. Then Gwaine reverted, snapping a causal salute and descending into the town. Berimund watched him until he disappeared amongst the market stalls. Worth dying for. True nobility. And Merlin had claimed not too many months ago, pure of heart.

Berimund turned to make his way back through the citadel. Prince Arthur engendered a loyalty even he could envy. Good men with good hearts were willing to dedicate themselves to the man. Not two months ago, when the citadel had been under magical attack, Prince Arthur had led them when his father had suffered a terrible breakdown. The spoiled child and the arrogant youth had transformed. Perhaps there was still some maturity to be had, but Berimund found he agreed with Gwaine, believing that some day, he'd be proud to serve under Prince Arthur even more than his father.


	9. The Prodigal

"It's a free day, da," twelve-year-old Tamas whined as they approached the smithy.

"And what would you do with it otherwise?" twenty-year-old Watkin challenged. "Throw rocks at Widow Ursel's house again?"

"I didn't do that!" Tamas protested. "It was Colbert! He even admitted it."

"But you were there."

"I never _touched_ a rock."

"So standing there watching it is better?"

"Both of you," Berimund raised his voice. "Stop arguing. Watkin, that's water under the bridge now. Tamas, if we can aid a neighbor in need, we should, even if it's a free day."

Watkin scowled, and Tamas mumbled under his breath, kicking at the dusty ground.

Berimund sucked in a long breath, reminding himself it didn't help to knock his sons' heads together. Times had certainly changed. Watkin, a leader of youthful hoodlums only a short five years ago, was now the one trying to collar his younger brother to prevent him from following a similar path. Still, Tamas was quite different, not a leader, but a scared follower who froze up when presented with a moral dilemma. He needed some of Watkin's fire, and Watkin perhaps would do well with a dose of Tamas' hesitancy.

As they reached the door to the forge, Berimund recalled finding Watkin here once enamored with Gwen who had defended him when his own defense of her had turned sour. She'd used her influence to encourage Watkin towards better ways, and Watkin had done exactly as she proposed. Berimund owed Gwen his son, not to mention felt for her pains, and so had volunteered himself and his sons to assist her brother.

The smithy's broad door had been propped open and Berimund knocked on its frame. "Hello?"

"Yes?" a voice called out, deeper than Berimund remembered. He hadn't interacted much with Gwen's brother, but he recalled the youth working next to his father at times.

Elyan arose from a crouch next to an anvil, and Berimund took in the muscular young man that had replaced the skinny youth from four years ago. Deeply intelligent brown eyes questioned him. "May I help you?"

"I'm Berimund. I don't know if you remember me."

Elyan shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"I'm a guard in the citadel. I know your sister. She mentioned you meant to get the forge up and working. I brought my sons, Watkin and Tamas." He pointed a finger at each to distinguish them. Berimund glanced around at the disordered smithy strewn with broken materials and scattered tools, its walls pockmarked with dents and holes. "We can help _you_."

Elyan stared. "You aren't afraid to be seen with the son of a man who consorts with sorcerers?" he spat bitterly.

"I'm sorry you came home to this," Berimund apologized. "Not all of us believed Tom knew he had been hired by a sorcerer."

Elyan ran an eye over the mess. "How quickly friends turned on him."

Berimund pinched his lips together. It was true. After Tom had been arrested and then tried to escape, most had assumed his guilt. Some had felt so betrayed they'd vandalized his forge in retaliation against anything tainted with sorcery.

"Berimund...I think Gwen mentioned you. You took her in after my father...after he...died."

Berimund would never forget the maid wailing in the courtyard as her father's body had been hauled away. How he'd seen her several days later sitting outside her house with a vacant expression, unable to step foot inside. The vandalism of the forge had been her breaking point, and when she appeared at their door, tears streaming down her face, they had provided a bed as long as she needed. Merlin had come to visit her at their home, and once even Prince Arthur, which both surprised and pleased the soldier.

"I can't very well refuse the help," Elyan conceded. "You're welcome."

"Then tell us what we can do."

* * *

Elyan set them to work, cleaning to begin with, disposing of those things unmendable, setting aside what could be made useful once more. Then Tamas expressed interest in the forge, and Elyan spent some time explaining how it worked until Watkin interjected.

"You just want to ask questions to get out of the work," Berimund's oldest son chastised as he hefted a load of iron ore into a bin.

"I do not," Tamas argued.

"You were supposed to clear off the floor. Look. It's hardly been swept."

"Da!"

"No more! From both of you!" He nodded to Elyan. "Thank you for explaining."

"My pleasure," Elyan smiled for the first time. It was a good smile and reminded Berimund of his sister.

Tamas shuffled back over to pick up the broom he'd set against the wall. "I wish _I_ was a sorcerer. I'd enchant this broom and we could talk."

"How can you say that?" Watkin objected. " _How_ many times have sorcerers attacked Camelot, the king, the prince?"

Berimund noted Elyan turning away, his back stiffening. _And got Tom the Blacksmith killed._

Tamas ignored his brother. "Hey! Look at this!" He withdrew something from behind a barrel, then held it at arm's length. It was a sword, long, pointed, and delicately etched on the pommel. Watkin stepped over, taking it from his brother. He held it aloft for a moment.

"It's beautiful." He swung it in the air several times, and then moved back and forth through several defensive steps. Berimund stifled a smile when Elyan unsheathed another sword lying on a table. Watkin startled as another blade halted his.

"Show me what you know," Elyan encouraged.

Watkin grinned and they were off. With no intent to kill, the mock duel was slow and careful, more a practice routine than anything else. Berimund watched with pride, and a bit of surprise. He had taught Watkin some, but so much of his boy's footwork and positions were his own. When Elyan forced a killing blow, he stopped, his sword hovering in the air in front of Watkin's chest.

"You're really good," Watkin enthused, lowering the sword.

"You, too." Elyan complimented. "Are you a swordsman?"

"He wants to be a knight," Tamas declared.

Elyan smiled. "A worthy goal."

Watkin's cheeks reddened. "Foolish one here in Camelot."

At one time, Berimund had feared his son might follow him as a guard in the castle or a soldier in the army, but Watkin craved more, the prestige of knighthood, something he would never know.

Watkin handed the discovered blade to Elyan. The young blacksmith held out both swords horizontally, side by side, squinting down the blades. "It's my father's work. His mark is etched on the pommel. I wonder who he made it for." Elyan handed the sword back to Watkin who lifted it reverently. "My father made my sword as well. A gift on my fourteenth birthday."

Watkin stammered. "Sorry, you know, about...Well, sorry."

As Elyan turned away, he spoke softly. "Keep it."

Berimund started. "We must pay you." From what he could see, the blade was some of Tom's finest work.

Elyan shook his head at him. "Consider it my own gift for your help."

"I should get it. I found it," Tamas asserted.

"You don't even know what to do with a sword," Watkin commented.

"I do to! Pyris and I practice all the time."

"With sticks."

"Da! It's not fair."

Berimund sighed loudly. "Your brother is right, Tamas. You aren't ready for a sword like that. It will remain Watkin's."

Tamas growled. Berimund strode over to him and handed him a few coins. "It's the lunch hour. Bring us back some meat pies, and if you're good, maybe there's enough for a fritter as well." Tamas brightened, zipping for the door. Berimund spoke to Watkin. "Keep an eye on him and _don't_ antagonize him."

Watkin followed his brother at a slower pace, still marveling at the sword. Berimund turned once he'd exited. "I apologize. Perhaps I shouldn't have brought the two of them along."

"It's all right. It's not like this place hasn't seen arguing before. Gwen and I..." he cut off as he retrieved a scoop.

"You fought?" Berimund prompted.

Elyan scraped at old ashes gummed into the hearth. "Almost all the time the year before I left. I was getting into trouble, she was getting me out. Father was yelling at me. Everyone was unhappy."

"And you left." Berimund picked up a large bucket and stepped up beside Elyan to collect the ashes.

"I thought they'd be better without me."

Elyan paused, tightening his hand on the end of the scoop. "I could have spoken up for him if I'd been here. I could have fought back. Could have comforted Gwen. Could have..." His brows crushed together and he furiously tackled the ashes, now loosened enough to fill the air. Berimund backed up as Elyan coughed in the swirling dust and pulled him back by an elbow.

"Take a moment. Sit."

Elyan collapsed on a stool, wheezing until he could breathe normally again.

"Your sister cares for you," Berimund ventured.

Elyan looked up at him, the pain in his eyes unmistakable.

"And fathers love their sons no matter what they have done."

Elyan crossed his arms over his chest and bowed his head. "I've tried to tell myself he knew I loved him."

Berimund looked out the door. "Watkin's fought my instruction. Tamas, too. And yet, a few days pass and they come to me again and are never turned away. I am sure your father would have welcomed you back."

Elyan firmed his jaw. "Maybe, but I can never forgive myself."

Berimund considered what he would desire for his own children if he passed on. "You're here now. Good fathers never wish unhappiness and pain on their children. He would want you to move forward. I think he would be pleased to see his forge come to life again in the hands of his son."

"I'm not half as good."

Berimund smiled. "Not to hear your sister tell it."

Elyan laughed softly and looked up. "She always had too much faith in me."

"She's a good woman"

"I should have listened to her more." Elyan ran a hand over his eyes, then looked critically at Berimund. "She's been happy, hasn't she?"

"I think so, yes."

"Prince Arthur..." Elyan hesitated.

"Yes?"

"He's a good man."

Berimund smirked. "Well, I used to think he was to be a blight on this kingdom, but I've been persuaded differently." He sobered. "He wouldn't have killed your father without a trial."

"He gave Gwen her home for life," Elyan ruminated. "Protected her place in the citadel."

"As I said, a good man." Berimund had once thought King Uther exactly what Camelot needed, a man with an iron fist to make law and protect it. But over time he'd observed the cracks in their sovereign's personality, or maybe he himself had become more flexible over time. Whatever the case, he found himself more often disturbed at the king's actions than he wished to be, like when he'd ordered Tom killed on sight when he escaped.

Berimund remembered that night. He had been about to head home and the bells pealed. He had joined the search, but prayed he would not be the one to find Tom. He wasn't sure he could have obeyed such an order and cause Gwen such unalterable grief. After Tom had been killed, he felt angry for days, and guilty. If he had been the one to find the man, he could have spared his life even with the king's order, returned him to his cell so he could receive a fair trial. But it was not to be.

"And what would the king think if his son took an interest in a maid?"

Berimund was drawn out of his reverie and suddenly understood the worry in Elyan's eyes—he had sensed something between Gwen and their prince, and he was right. There was nothing explicit, but their eyes meeting as they passed each other in the hall or occupied the same room hinted at more than a passing interest. He had thought such a thing dangerous, but the lilt in Gwen's step and the light in her eyes kept him from opening his mouth. Besides, it wasn't his place to meddle in the romances of others.

"Your sister once told me Prince Arthur was a conceited bully, but I don't think she feels that way anymore."

Elyan nodded.

"As for Uther, servants are to him what they are to most―not noble enough for his son."

Elyan pressed his lips together. "She's more noble than the king will ever know."

Berimund smiled softly. He had thought that very thing himself. Too bad Uther would never see it. He rather liked the idea of Gwen in a crown. "Don't fear for her. Prince Arthur is honorable and knows his place."

"I owe him," Elyan whispered. "More than I can repay."

Berimund understood. "He has done much for your sister."

"And me."

"How?"

"He brought me back here," Elyan replied with a mysterious smile, and Berimund wondered what part of the story he'd missed.

"That did not happen. You have to be joking." Watkin's voice came down the lane and filtered into the forge.

"Really! It did! A whole family of toads, nesting in his bed and croaking every night."

"Who would put up with that?" Watkin laughed at Tamas' story.

Berimund nodded his head to the door. "Friends again. The loyalty of family can never be surpassed."

Elyan slowly stood. "You've helped enough today. I think I'm going to the Citadel. Someone deserves to know how much I care, and someone else deserves my thanks."

Elyan waved to Watkin and Tamas as they passed each other in the doorway.

"Where's he going?" Watkin asked.

"To talk to his sister." Berimund grabbed each son by a shoulder and swung them around. "It's a free day, isn't it? How about some fishing on the river."

"Really, da? No more work?" Tamas asked, his face buried in a fritter.

Watkin handed Berimund a meat pie. "Bet I can beat your record," he challenged.

Berimund followed his boys out of the smithy, clapping them both on the back. Someday they would stand before his grave. What would they say? What would they remember? He only hoped and prayed that his love for them would remain in their hearts as long as they lived.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hope this comes off well. For some reason, I find Elyan a hard character to write.


	10. The Hero

The ceremony had been formal, somber, and silent, a contrast to the turbulent emotions on the watchers' faces as they dispersed. Most shuffled away to privately nurse their pains, but a few remained, among them Berimund's firstborn son. Watkin knelt as close as he could without being singed, down on one knee, head bowed, shoulders shaking ever so slightly. Berimund stood behind him and laid a hand on the crown of his head.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, the comfort small and weak and wholly inadequate, the stale platitude the only thing he could think to utter in such a dark moment. His gaze moved to the bier once more, and his mind to a memory of the man it burned for...

* * *

"Excuse me. I don't mean to intrude, but I believe you are Berimund."

Berimund had just finished assigning the duties of his new roster to the guards under his command. For a month now he had been the officer in charge of the west wing of the citadel, and had redistributed the guards after a recent reevaluation of security. He turned to see Sir Lancelot, one of Arthur's newest knights and a commoner.

So much had occurred in such a short time. The Lady Morgana had been taken from them for almost a year, and when she had been found there had been great rejoicing in her return. Little did they know she had been twisted by evil. With Cenred's army and the witch Morgause at her back, she had initiated a coup. Berimund had spent the duration in the cells of the dungeon with all the other guards that had survived the fight to take the citadel. He didn't lay eyes on Morgana once. He sometimes wondered how she could have turned so viciously upon them. Uther had loved her as his own. Magic was the only explanation.

In spite of the forces that supported her, she had been defeated after a short time. Prince Arthur had escaped her take over and recovered his kingdom, quite handily as the stories said. Uther was broken after, and Berimund felt a twinge of pity every time their king came to mind. He could only imagine what it would do to him if one of his own children turned on him so. At least, the Lady Morgana claimed to be Uther's child when she assumed the throne. Lively debates among the people still popped up now and then concerning her parentage.

"I am, Sir Knight," Berimund replied.

"Just call me Lancelot," the dark haired man smiled kindly. Berimund hadn't interacted much with the new knights yet, but every time he did felt happily at ease. Without the barriers of nobility between them, he seemed to be more respected. "I wished to speak to you," the knight glanced around, "privately."

Berimund bobbed his head and motioned to the hall. They settled in a solitary alcove. "Do you have a task for me?"

Lancelot smiled again and shook his head. "It's more personal."

"Oh?" Berimund raised an eyebrow. If Lancelot had come to him in need, he couldn't fathom why. The man was considered Arthur's best knight―highly skilled, dependable, and even better, humble. He'd already gained the praises of most men in Camelot despite the status of his birth. Well, perhaps not some of the younger men; he'd captured the admiration of too many young ladies.

"It concerns your son." Lancelot's dark eyes searched Berimund's, calculating a response, and even though the soldier tried not to, he bristled all the same.

Watkin had desired the life of a knight since a child, and after Morgana's attack, had spent even more time hanging around the training grounds. Elyan had invited him there, taught him some new skills, and that was fine with Berimund. Until Watkin began to talk of the prince opening knighthoods to other commoners, expressing his intention to try out, and Berimund had argued against it.

His objections were sound. Watkin hadn't been a squire of any kind, and he'd come of age, too old to begin. Of course, his boy argued back it didn't matter, that Prince Arthur's chosen knights were young as he and hadn't been squires either. Berimund countered with his apprenticeship, and Watkin ranted over his disdain for carpentry, how he wouldn't ever be happy pursuing it further. Anything Berimund said after that was met with stony silence.

"I'm not normally one to interfere with a man's affairs. I apologize if approaching you is an offense."

The knight's apology disarmed Berimund. "It's not an offense."

"I've spent time with Watkin," Lancelot went on, assuming Berimund's reply granted him a hearing. "He has a natural talent for swordsmanship. I've been impressed as have many of the others. Even Arthur has mentioned him."

Berimund couldn't help pride welling in his chest, but his resistance wasn't toppled. "He's surprised even me sometimes, but I've never wanted him to be a soldier."

"Why not?" Lancelot's question contained no challenge, just a desire to understand.

"May I speak freely?"

Lancelot raised a willing hand. "Nothing we say between us will pass my lips."

"For a long time, our prince was not so noble."

Lancelot slowly grinned. "I've heard stories."

"I can't guarantee all of them are true," Berimund hurriedly amended, "but he wasn't a prince I wanted my son beholden to."

"And now?"

"Prince Arthur has changed much since his childhood and youth. Still, Watkin's been apprenticed under a carpenter since he was ten. It's a solid craft and he's good at it. To waste all these years isn't right. We've already discussed him opening his own shop."

"But he doesn't want to," Lancelot's soft voice countered.

"He's told you that?"

"Only me. We've come to know each other quite well."

Berimund stared. He hadn't known that. He'd thought Watkin stuck more to Elyan and sometimes Leon, of course, their family knight.

"We have much in common. He's longed to be a knight like I once did. I never thought it possible, and yet, here I am."

Berimund crossed his arms over his chest. "So you're appealing to me so I agree to let him seek knighthood."

"More than that. I would like permission to train him and make him my squire. You might think him too old for the role, but he'll be more than my shield bearer and armor polisher. I think with practice, he could take a place among the rest of Arthur's knights within a year."

Berimund didn't answer, his heart racing. He hadn't confessed the deeper reason he didn't wish Watkin to be knighted, the reason he couldn't even admit to himself―fear. He put his own life at risk protecting the castle at times, but the knights? They risked themselves far more often and many had died during Berimund's years of service.

Lancelot leaned back against one wall of the alcove, folding his own arms. "My father and mother were killed when our village was ransacked by raiders. I held my mother's hand and watched the light of life fade from her eyes. I would have died beside her like my father, but her last words begged me to flee. So I did." Lancelot's eyes had moistened. Berimund held his breath.

"I spent years studying sword craft," the knight went on, "to right such evils in our world. Prince Arthur has seen fit to make me the man I've ever wanted to be. He craves justice and protects his people, whatever their position."

Berimind nodded, assenting. The prince had taken up regency since his father hardly had his wits these days. He had led them well, with honor and courage and self-sacrifice.

"Watkin's talked of you and his mother, his brothers and sisters. It isn't just glory he seeks. He wants to protect his own home and his kingdom. And like me, the fire is in his heart. I do not think you will ever be able to put it out."

Berimund considered the young knight for a time. A few years before he had come to their lands and saved them from a Griffin. He'd been exiled then for lying about being noble. Berimund might have counted that against him, but the young man had acknowledged his fault and accepted its consequence. He had ridden away from them. But everyone now knew that one failing had been just that. This man was an exemplary knight of Camelot.

Berimund sighed. "I see why our prince has chosen you as a knight. Not for just your sword arm, but your skilled tongue as well."

Lancelot's small smile evidenced his humility. "I never thought I had much of a way with words."

"Don't sell yourself so short, Sir Knight...Lancelot." Berimund uncrossed his arms. "I know Watkin's heart. From a young age he's been bent towards taking up the defenses of the helpless."

"He will be a fine knight. I vow to treat him well. You need not fear for him in my hands."

Berimund pursed his lips. How could he not give in now? "Should you tell him or I?"

Lancelot openly smiled and held out his hand. "I think he'd like to hear it from his father." They shared a tight wrist grip...

* * *

As Berimund recalled Watkin's overwhelming joy and whoop at the news he'd be allowed to pursue knighthood, his eyes sought out the objects atop the bier darkening in the flames. Not a body, but only a red cape and a sword. Lancelot's.

Almost two weeks ago, otherworldly spirits had infiltrated their lands, translucent white horrors who killed in the moment it took to pass through living flesh. His family had found refuge in the citadel―Miriella, Tamas, Nora, Helene and her chubby little babe along with her husband's family. All except Watkin. His oldest had stayed outside, a torch in hand, fighting off spirits and rescuing those in danger.

Lancelot, Prince Arthur, and his closest knights had departed to discover the source of the curse on their lands. It wasn't until they returned without Lancelot that the true sacrifice for their salvation had become known―the best knight had consigned himself to death, crossing the veil between the living and the dead to seal up the rift between the two.

Berimund's own eyes grew clouded. The man had been true to his word, dying as he'd lived. That this man had chosen Watkin, had seen in his son a heart like his, Berimund couldn't feel more honored even in his grief.

"Watkin," a kind voice spoke. Berimund was shaken out of his reverie to behold Elyan crouched at Watkin's left side, Leon on his right, both with hands on his shoulders. "Lancelot talked of you the night before...he left us," Elyan revealed. "Asked us to see to you. I think he may have known he wouldn't return." The dark eyed knight shared a glance with Leon. Leon wrapped an arm around Watkin's shoulders, encouraging him to stand.

Berimund nodded to Leon as their knight glanced at him, and they walked the boy towards the barracks. As Berimund watched them go, intent on comforting his son despite their own sharp mourning, he thought Prince Arthur's knights were the most noble of the Five Kingdoms.

"Berimund."

Berimund pivoted in surprise to find Prince Arthur standing beside him. "Sire." He bowed his head.

"Your son will be looked after. I'll see to it personally."

"I am grateful, my lord." _For this courtesy and your heart and the man you've become._

"Even though...I doubt any of us can replace such a man as Lancelot." The prince's eyes had focused on Watkin being guided by Elyan and Leon.

"I believe, sire, that there is not one man among your knights who is not as good as Sir Lancelot...including yourself."

Prince Arthur rolled his gaze to him, unshed tears glazing his eyes. "Perhaps," he murmured. He bowed his head and moved away.

Berimund pondered as his gaze followed the prince's steps to the citadel entrance. Lancelot had paid for them with his life, but it wouldn't have been his prominent duty. He'd sworn to protect the prince, following his orders, and Berimund couldn't believe Prince Arthur would demand another do what he could do himself. What if there were more to the story? What if their prince had meant to sacrifice himself and Lancelot had gotten in the way?

Berimund let his eyes fall on the bier once more. _May Heaven preserve your soul, Sir Lancelot, and make those of us who must live without you as good as you have been._


	11. The Giant

**Author's Note:** A special shout out to Doberler, who continues to be a godsend as she helps me brainstorm ideas.

* * *

Berimund beamed at the cherub bouncing on his knee. Helene's little Albert giggled as his grandfather neighed and nickered. Helene smiled broadly. "Every time you come, da, he hasn't eyes for anyone else."

Berimund stood, lifting the two year old by his underarms into the air, then settling him against his chest to rock back and forth. "And how's the second one coming along?"

Helene straightened from bending over the fire-pot, one hand supporting her back while the other brandished a ladle. "Moving way more than Albie did. Keeps me up most of the night." She shifted her hand from her back to her belly. "Maybe a girl then. Mum says they're more active. Gotta learn to fight off the boys."

Berimund laughed. That sounded so like his Miriella, though she hadn't fought him off. Quite the opposite.

"What's that grin for?" Helene inquired.

Berimund raised his eyebrows. "Never you mind."

"Thinking of mum." Helene dropped the ladle back into the stew. "Speaking of, don't you need to head home?"

Berimund sighed, not wanting to leave the pleasant time he spent with his oldest daughter. "I do. Tamas will be almost done and your mother wanted us to pass through the market."

Helene waddled over, reaching out to retrieve her firstborn who protested, stretching out for his grandfather. "He'll come again," she assured. "Don't you fret."

Berimund planted a kiss on both their foreheads and wandered out the door. He'd been given some time off in the afternoon before his shift at the citadel tonight. A dignitary would arrive in the evening, a lord not entirely kind to Camelot, and his men were required for an extra show of security.

Ever since his father's passing, King Arthur had been making treaties and amends, yet with an assertion of his own authority, showing he had truly become king. So far, he had proven to be a good one. Much rejoicing had accompanied his ascending the throne, even though the event had come at the expense of King Uther's assassination. The transfer of power had been welcome, many relieved that a stable king reigned instead of the broken one Uther had been before his death.

Watkin had nothing but praise for King Arthur. His boy had been on several patrols with the king and the man had earned his loyalty. Berimund thought it rather strange now to think back on the spoiled brat the king had once been. Berimund attributed much of that change to his manservant and beloved maidservant. Merlin and Gwen had been a balm for their prince's soul.

Berimund smiled, contented. All was well. They had a good king, a good woman soon to be queen, and his own family prospered. Helene was a dedicated mother, Watkin a loyal soldier, Nora engaged, and Tamas cherished his apprenticeship at the royal forge. Elyan had procured the position for him, and Berimund had about burst with pride. The master of the forge had already proclaimed that if Tamas kept excelling as he was, he would see him a partner some day. Nothing could mar the day, except maybe what he suddenly spied underneath a wagon.

Berimund halted when he caught the shadow of a large figure crouched and curled up next to a wheel. Years of habit put him instantly on alert. His hand clasped the hilt of his sword as he scrutinized the man. A thief? His gaze narrowed and he glanced around. Who did he lie in wait for?

Berimund stepped closer, then squatted. He was about to speak when he recognized the man―Sir Percival, one of King Arthur's closest knights, though out of armor. Why was the man hiding here? Was he on a mission of some sort?

Berimund opened his mouth to inquire, then worried he might give the knight away to whomever he stalked. He clamped his mouth shut, deciding instead to wait at the back of the wagon and pretend he was re-buckling his boot in case Percival needed help.

So focused was he, he dismissed the two children that pounded past him as threats. A third, though, stopped at the front of the wagon, brow crunched, intelligent brown eyes scanning the area. The little girl pointed and yelled, "I found you!"

Percival roared like a bear and gripped the wagon's under bar to propel himself forward and out. He rose to his enormous height and snapped the girl up from the ground, tossing her into the air. She let out a peal of laughter, her chin length hair bobbing with her chortles. Next thing Berimund knew, the other two children had sprinted back.

"You always find good places to hide!" one exclaimed, a boy with blond hair.

The other blonde, another girl, nudged Percival in the thigh and grinned.

"Got to get you home," Percival said, glancing up at the sun.

All of the children groaned, but assented, following the knight still carrying the first girl. Berimund, flummoxed at such a man playing with _children,_ followed. Their direction was on the way to the forge after all and he was more than fascinated by a knight who had made friends of little ones who hardly reached his waist.

Keeping up with the knight was easy―the man was more than a head taller than anyone around him. Percival stopped at the common wash house. He didn't go inside; the house was the purview of women. The two blond-headed children shouted their good-byes and continued farther down the lane. Percival set the dark-haired girl down on her feet and she dashed into the wash house, but the knight didn't depart. He shifted from foot to foot, looking altogether nervous. Not long after a woman appeared, much shorter than he, hair bound back with a kerchief, sweaty from her work, the little girl pressing into her leg.

Percival ducked his head, a warm glow on his cheeks, and the two talked quietly for a time. Then Percival reached into a pouch hanging from his belt and produced a cord of some kind with a charm on it. The woman blushed and seemed to protest a little, but the cord ended up around her neck anyway. Percival bent over, tousled the little girl's hair, and wandered off down the path.

Deep in thought, Berimund continued on until he reached the royal forge.

* * *

"Any gossip to report?" Miriella queried when Berimund arrived back home with thirteen year old Tamas who dashed away to wash.

"Actually..."

Miriella raised an eyebrow. He knew she hadn't expected a response, just his usual chiding that she partook in women's favorite activity of the day. She only inquired to tease him in the first place.

Berimund sank down at the table, tearing off a crust of freshly baked bread. "I saw Sir Percival hiding under a wagon."

Miriella cocked her head. "A wagon?"

"He was playing hide-and-seek with children."

Miriella laughed and nodded, setting a bowl of dried fruits in front of him. "He's become quite the figure among the children."

Berimund stared at her in surprise. "He has?"

"Ever since the Dorocha attack. He rescued three of them―Lucey, Danel, and Rosa."

Berimund nodded slowly, vaguely recalling some story of the knight's exploits during the event.

Miriella sat down next to him, sighing sadly as she procured an apricot. "Lucey's father was killed by one of the spirits."

"I wasn't aware."

"Sir Percival's been seeing to Thea, his widow."

Puzzles pieces clicked together. The woman he had seen Sir Percival speaking to.

"He's done so much for her, even providing funds from his pay to care for them."

Berimund thought of the necklace. "I think more than that."

"Hm?"

Berimund bowed his head. "I shouldn't wag my tongue about a private matter."

Miriella smiled softly. "He sees her. I know. She's been rather shy about it, but the rest of us have eyes."

"Apparently not me," Berimund returned.

"Only because you don't hang out with the chattering hens."

Berimund chuckled at the term he'd once used.

"She was quite distraught after Galen died. Alone with a child and no man to support her. Percival's been a godsend. He's healed their grief as well as provided for their needs."

Berimund ruminated, chewing. The Dorocha incident had been terrifying for all. Even though his family had been sequestered inside the citadel walls, there was no guarantee. Fires had been left raging all through the harrowing nights. More than once he had come by to hold his shaking children. He'd feared Watkin might succumb to an attack as he fought beside the knights outside. They had come through. But what if _he_ hadn't?

Berimund considered Miriella, hands busy even as they ate, sewing a new shirt for Tamas. Their boy joined them at the table, sharing a brief conversation with his mother before eating eagerly. Miriella smiled at the boy, then concentrated on the shirt.

Berimund counted himself lucky he'd never been seriously injured, and superstitiously felt his fortune couldn't hold out forever, especially since Morgana was still out there somewhere most likely nursing revenge. If he were to pass beyond, what would he want for Miriella, for his children? _Another man. Good and strong and kind. A man like Sir Percival._

* * *

Berimund entered the citadel gates, the sun just brushing the horizon. Time to begin his shift. As he approached the barracks, a familiar figure exited, Sir Percival, now sporting his knightly attire. He seemed nothing like he had in the market, stone faced and dutiful, marching across the courtyard to attend his king.

They passed, only a nod between them, but Berimund hesitated and turned on his heel. "Sir Percival?"

The large man swiveled to meet his gaze, surprise written across his brow. They'd never really talked. "Yes?"

"I just wanted to say...that is..."

Percival tilted his head to the side. "Something wrong?"

Berimund cleared his throat. "You've done a good thing, helping Thea."

Percival's stern demeanor changed, dropping into embarrassed awkwardness. "Eh. Well. Erm." He scratched at the back of his neck. "Can we keep that between us?" He pointed at the barracks. "I haven't told them. Just didn't want to...eh..."

Berimud suppressed a smile. He understood. The knight would be subjected to mocking if the truth were out. "Your secret's safe with me."

Percival stared at him a couple seconds, then nodded his thanks.

"They're lucky to have you. I mean, Thea and Lucey."

Percival smiled sheepishly.

Berimund pulled himself up to his full height. "Anyway, sir, I didn't mean to butt in."

Percival stepped forward and clouted him on the shoulder, about knocking him over. "I appreciate it." He turned and bolted for the citadel steps.

Berimund watched him go, the giant of a man who could take out more than one enemy with a single blow and yet possessed the capacity for tenderness, too. Another of King Arthur's perfect choices. If the king's track record was anything to go by, Camelot would be the most blessed of any kingdom in Albion.


	12. The Witch

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Water pinged somewhere nearby, a steady, fateful rhythm. The sound had been unbearable in the beginning, one of those repetitive annoyances that drove someone to distraction. Two days in, and it faded into the background. A few more, and it infuriated them more than at first, transforming into a natural clock reminding them they were still prisoners and those outside likely suffered hell.

Berimund tried not to dwell on how his wife and children were handling the crisis. They would be strong and brave, but he couldn't forget the usurper had cut down her own people without mercy the first time she'd claimed the throne.

A hacking cough resounded in the cell and Berimund glanced across at Hew. The dampness was doing none of them any good, not to mention the lack of food or plentiful water. Berimund balled his hands into fists. At least last time Morgana had allowed them to be fed.

Berimund had mourned the woman he'd once known as an independent, but generous girl adopted by Camelot. He used to enjoy seeing her in the lower town with her maid, providing for orphans and widows in need. Then she had been taken and accessed magic and all had changed. Her heart had blackened, reshaped by evil.

Berimund scratched at his stubbly chin. Here he was again, captured and shoved in a cell along with other guards unable to escape the citadel. The first time they had managed to hold out hope. This time rescue was slow in coming, if at all. Their numbers dwindled daily, not from death, but cowardice. Berimund sighed. No, he couldn't be so high-minded. Starving was no easy feat. He couldn't blame those who gave in.

Hew coughed again. He'd already been suffering a malaise before the attack and spending more than a week in the dungeons was taking its toll. Berimund shuffled over to his friend, kneeling before him to touch the back of his hand. "Just tell her you'll swear fealty."

Hew's rheumy eyes hardened. "No." He dragged his hand away from Berimund.

"You can eat and live. Strengthen yourself for our king's return."

Hew rested his head against the stony wall and closed his eyes. "I could never live with myself."

Berimund crawled to Hew's side and leaned back, too. He understood. His reasoning was the same. He closed his eyes. Seconds ticked by one ping at a time.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

* * *

Berimund startled awake when shouting echoed down the dungeon corridor outside the cell. He turned to Hew whose eyes had filled with fear. They shared the same thought―their end had come. She had tired of their resistance at last.

Berimund swallowed thickly and gripped Hew's arm. "We stand," he whispered.

Hew blinked back tears and nodded. Berimund rose to his feet, bringing Hew along with him. They faced the entrance to the cell. He heard rustling and glanced back; every last guard stood resolutely. Berimund's heart swelled with pride. She would not find them cowering.

The faces of those Berimund loved most passed before his mind's eye. _Please,_ he silently prayed. _Preserve my Miriella and our children._ The words brought an unexpected peace and fear gave way to certainty. Now that it had come down to it, he was more than ready to die with honor. So when the shouting neared and capes of red swam in his vision, he found himself laughing deliriously in shock and relief.

Camelot knights swarmed the door, led by Sir Lucan, such a blessed sight as he unlocked the door. There was cheering and crying and claps on the back, but they were informed all was not entirely well yet. The battle to retake the citadel for King Arthur still raged above.

When Sir Lucan called for any men able to fight to follow him, Berimund hesitated only a second to assure Hew was in good hands, eased down to the ground by another knight already seeing to his needs. Weakness and fatigue melted away as adrenaline raced through Berimund's veins. A quick stop at the armory found him with a sword in his hand once more, and after, he sprinted through the castle along with his companions, joining the fight for their home.

Within a few minutes, they fell upon a group of Southrons. Berimund had never felt such satisfaction as he did when his blade sliced through three men in the ensuing clash. _For the love of Camelot!_ his mind shouted with every swing.

They marched on from the Southron corpses and encountered a fierce fight already in progress down a long corridor. They were about to rush forwards when _she_ appeared at the other end, the witch who had planned and executed their downfall twice, pale, clad in black, hair disheveled and eyes wild. They held back, expecting blasts of power and destruction, but she fought her way forward with only a sword. Berimund didn't have time to wonder why as the men rushed towards the threat.

She cut them down as they came, one by one falling before her. Without warning, Berimund stood alone at the end of the hall. He planted his feet on the floor and braced his legs. She would never pass by him.

She attacked without pause, and he backed up when she swung at him, then lashed out with his own blade. A few more thrusts and parries, and his sword tumbled from his grasp. She always had been good with a sword, and he was heavily disadvantaged, having expended the last energy reserves he'd possessed after his ordeal in the dungeon.

His arm took a heavy blow, his bone about breaking at her vicious slash. He hadn't had time to dress in armor, and his soiled shirt and trousers provided no protection. Morgana thrust out once more, and he tumbled backwards, embarrassingly hitting the floor. He scooted away when her sword aimed at his chest, pressing into a wall. He looked up to meet a shining green gaze that had once captivated the young men of the court, and for a moment, the ruthless mask faltered, revealing a terrified child underneath. He noticed she clutched at her side, blood leaking through her fingers.

Berimund blurted out his observation in a vain hope to stall her. "You're wounded, my lady."

She pulled her hand from her side and glanced at the injury, her expression blank and weary. When she looked back at him, her shoulders slumped, revealing exhaustion and defeat.

Berimund grasped at the chance to reach her. "We loved you, our lady of Camelot. You were brave and kind and worthy of our kingdom. How could you turn on us so?" Would she hear him as she had all those years ago at her father's grave?

A sound he hadn't expected burst from her throat, a keening gulp, a prelude to weeping. Her eyes glazed over. She seemed again the young girl she had once been, a fragile and grieving waif cast adrift in a life too cruel for one so young.

"This is the only way," she asserted.

"You can find another," Berimund argued. "Stop this now."

She drew the sword away from his chest and bent over to study his wounded arm. He should have leaped at her, but adrenaline had run out, leaving him as weak as a newborn kitten. Surprisingly, her hand briefly cupped his left cheek. "It's gone too far." She rose and her chin jutted upwards. "Kindness for kindness. My debt to you is repaid."

He watched her hurry down the corridor as a haze overtook his vision. When darkness descended, he was pondering the scared little girl that had taken residence in a powerful woman's body.

* * *

Berimund woke to a room full of people, most laying on makeshift cots or blankets on the floor. Physicians from various places in the capitol attended those injured during the retaking of the citadel. Gaius himself was incapacitated, having been locked up and starved just like the guards. Merlin had appeared, exclaiming his joy to see the physician alive. The serving boy, a man now actually, had approached Berimund's cot when he realized who rested in it, giving him a once over to make sure he was being tended to properly. Turns out he had passed down the hall soon after Morgana's departure. He had seen Berimund's lifeless form, but hadn't the time to stop.

Gwaine and Elyan occupied the impromptu medical ward, as well, though they protested and cajoled until they were allowed to leave. Berimund had asked them if they had seen Watkin. Neither had, but promised to send him Berimund's way if they did.

For twenty minutes, nausea flipped Berimund's stomach. Perhaps Watkin was one of the dead corpses he'd heard they were lying out in the courtyard to await proper rites. His boy had almost made knighthood. To come so close, and die now... Berimund tried to banish such thoughts, but they persisted. He refused the broth a physician's assistant insisted he drink to build up his strength but received a severe tongue lashing from the physician, and after a threat of force feeding, consented to sip a little.

Just as he finished the bowl, the door slammed open and a voice cried out, "Da!" Watkin, still arrayed in his chain-mail, scanned the room and finding his father, rushed across it. Berimund almost collapsed in relief as his oldest son wrapped his tight arms around him. He returned in kind, curling his undamaged left arm around Watkin and propping his head on his son's shoulder, leaning into the embrace.

When Watkin released him, Berimund steadied himself as best he could to assess his son. He saw no injuries. "What happened to you?" he asked. Watkin gushed out an explanation describing the initial fight to protect the citadel and then a retreat into the woods. A plan had already been in place for such a situation, those who survived ordered to meet in the Forest of Essetir. That was where Watkin had found the rest of their family, safe, having fled along with the surviving army. But that wasn't the end of Watkin's tale.

"You won't believe what I saw, da," his son enthused. "King Arthur drew out a sword melded into stone."

"A sword in a stone?" Berimund questioned with a crinkled eyebrow.

Watkin nodded vigorously. "Merlin showed up. Told us that the king was going to prove himself the true leader of Camelot who could defeat Morgana. I believed that anyway, most of us did, but he still told us a story about a sword that had been preserved in stone by Bruta in ancient times and only the true king of Camelot could remove it. A lot of people thought it was hogwash, but every last one showed up where he told us to. And the stone was there, the sword encased in it." Watkin paused, his eyes aglow. "He did it, da. He's the true king. No one can defeat him. He's blessed by heaven."

Berimund, although awed by the story, wasn't as sure of the conclusion. "And what of Morgana?" He'd already been informed she escaped, and he was certain his brief encounter would have done nothing to dissuade her.

"Wretched witch!" Watkin spat out. "We'll see the king's sword in her gullet, I swear, or her head on a block."

Berimund knew he should have vehemently agreed. He probably would have at Watkin's age, but he had seen the rise and fall of so many. He'd watched a prat turn into a king and a compassionate girl turn into a raging despot. "She spared me."

"What?"

"She had her sword ready to end my life, and she didn't."

"Why?"

Berimund wondered that himself. Kindness for kindness. "Because who she used to be is still part of her."

"Huh?"

Berimund inhaled in a long breath. "I was just thinking...she watched execution after execution of those like her, and I wonder..."

"What, da?" Watkin demanded an explanation.

"How much that would weigh on the soul of a distressed child."

"She's no child."

"She was once. A grieving child with little left that meant anything to her. This..." his eyes wandered around the sick room, "is the outcome of a girl unable to free herself from fear."

Watkin snorted. "You talk nonsense more and more these days, da."

"I suppose maybe I do," Berimund admitted. Perhaps all those who aged waxed more philosophical the older they got.

Several boisterous cheers commanded their attention at the door of the room. King Arthur had appeared, smiling, nodding, and walking among the wounded, stopping to chat and offer his encouragement. Watkin beamed at his king and Berimund smiled at his hero worship.

"He used to be an arrogant twit."

Watkin looked back at him. "Really?"

Berimund nodded, remembering a boy who threw rocks at servants sent to the stocks, fumed when he lost practice duels with good men, and taunted young girls who just lost their fathers. "I'm glad he's turned out better than he was."

Berimund realized as they followed their king's progress around the room that Morgana was wrong. One always had a choice―let trials taint your soul or do what is right in spite of them. He had a feeling Arthur would do the latter, even to his dying breath.

"Watkin," the king greeted when he reached them, clapping his boy on the shoulder.

Watkin stood and bowed his head. "Sire."

"You did well. Thank you."

Berimund didn't miss the flush on his son's cheeks.

"And Berimund." Arthur gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. "I wish we had come sooner."

"You came, my lord, and that is what matters."

Arthur smiled at him, shaking his shoulder gently, and moved on. Berimund watched him go. Hang it all if he didn't find a part of him worshipping the man, too.


	13. The Druid

The clash of practice swords rang out as Berimund passed by the knights' training yard. Late afternoon wasn't a typical time for a training session, but King Arthur had spent almost the entire day in council. The man couldn't bear being separated from his sword for too long, not to mention he'd recently lost another knight, Sir Ranulf. He'd seek relief through the discipline of physical exertion.

Berimund paused when he caught sight of Watkin. Several of the younger knights had been paired with one another. A slash, a parry, a slice to his partner's side and Watkin lowered his sword momentarily, grumbling, "Pay attention to your footwork." His opponent was the youngest and newest of the lot, a curly haired youth brought back when King Arthur had rescued captured knights from Morgana's clutches. Watkin had fortunately remained safe in Camelot as Arthur infiltrated Morgana's stronghold and liberated the enslaved knights. The young man facing Watkin's sword had saved Arthur's life, as the story went, when Morgana attempted to kill him.

Watkin made short work of the fresh faced knight, an elbow to the jaw, a thrust to the belly and Sir Mordred was had. The king appeared, speaking to both of them, then dismissing the knights, though he pulled Mordred to the side and raised his own sword, probably to give the young man pointers. Some of the knights stayed behind to watch, but the majority including Watkin moved off to the barracks.

Berimund found his own way to the guards' armory, divested himself of his armor and weapons, and then ambled over to the knights' armory. Most of the knights were already piling back out the door, laughing, patting each other on the back, energized after a hard, but satisfactory training session. Watkin didn't appear. Berimund peeked inside, spotting his son standing in a corner, one hand resting against a wall, the other in his hair, still dressed in his armor with tense shoulders and a fiery eye. Berimund interpreted the expression he'd witnessed often enough throughout his boy's life―something had run up against his son's sensibilities. That look of righteous indignation had often been thrown at a sibling for unfair play or at his parents when he thought he'd been misjudged.

Berimund approached quietly. "Need help?"

Watkin turned, startled, and his gaze roved the room to discover the other knights had gone. "Eh...I got it."

"No one's left," Berimund pointed out.

Watkin dipped his head and nodded slowly. Berimund stepped behind him to unbuckle a pauldron. He recalled how proud he'd been when he watched Watkin kneel in front of King Arthur, their sovereign's sword touching him on each shoulder and then his authoritarian voice commanding "Rise, Sir Watkin." His son had maintained his stoicism as a good knight should, but after the ceremony his mouth fairly glowed with his smile. That had been two years ago now and his son had relished pretty much every moment he'd achieved his dream.

Berimund placed the last piece of armor on a table and aided Watkin out of the chain mail. "You don't seem pleased for a man who just won his match." Watkin glanced at him. "I saw you on the training field."

"I fought a _boy_ ," Watkin scoffed.

"He's almost of age."

"So still a boy."

"You're only four years older."

Watkin snorted disdainfully, pulling at the laces of his shirt and dragging the material over his head. Berimund always thought it a bit odd to behold his formerly average son so large in the shoulders and chest. He looked like a man you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley these days.

"You usually take such pleasure in training. Something's bothering you."

"I'm just tired." Watkin let the shirt hang loose in his hands. "Gonna get a bath. I'll be by to see Tamas later. Promised to pick up some of his steelwork and show it to Sir Leon."

"You're changing the subject."

Watkin sighed. "Da..."

"Out with it."

Watkin grimaced and his voice lowered. "I don't want to speak ill. It's against the code."

The Knight's Code all Arthur's men lived by, even most of the guards. Berimund respected that, but he read in Watkin's eye his feelings weren't frivolous.

"We speak only as a man and his son," Berimund assured, glancing around the room to confirm its solitude.

Watkin sank down onto a bench and Berimund sat at his side. "It's...Sir Mordred."

"He struggles?"

Watkin snorted. "He excels...too much."

Berimund cocked his head. "How so?"

Watkin crumpled his shirt into a ball with both hands. "The king teaches him specially. Praises his every action."

"This bothers you?"

Watkin's mouth thinned into a grim line. "I think it altogether irregular for this boy to come from nowhere, be gifted a knighthood without earning it, and to occupy the king's particular attention."

"Lancelot was given a knighthood without squireship," Berimund pointed out.

"It's not that exactly," Watkin returned immediately. "It's strange. There's something about him. He's too quiet, too controlled."

"Those aren't terrible qualities."

"I'm telling you, da. Something's off."

"Hm." Berimund stared at Watkin, trying not to smile. Perhaps the bite of jealousy?

"Stop it," Watkin demanded, standing.

"What?"

He moved towards the door. "You think I'm spouting nonsense."

"I think you might be offended at Sir Mordred's sudden rise as compared to yours."

Watkin turned on his heel. "That's not it." He shook his shirt at his father.

"Couldn't it be?"

Watkin's chest rose and fell rapidly. "No. And before you doubt me more, Merlin thinks something's wrong, too."

Berimund rose from the bunch, brow crinkling. "You've talked to _Merlin_ about Sir Mordred?"

"Not talked to him, watched him. Everyone can read it in his eyes. He doesn't like the boy, and that's reason enough for me."

Ever since he'd saved Helene's life, Merlin had commanded the deepest respect of their family and especially Watkin who had sought the manservant out afterward to express his gratitude and offered to help him with any chores. The servant had declined, of course, and that only made them love him more.

"I need to go. Tamas will be waiting for me." Watkin hurried from the room towards the knights' baths.

Berimund didn't follow. It was easy to disregard Watkin's worries as envy. After all, his son had trained and worked hard and in waltzed one younger than he who was accepted without even testing. But Merlin's opinion? That weighed heavier in Berimund's mind. The manservant wasn't a knight, had no ulterior motive for disliking the newest addition. If Merlin was indeed concerned that should be enough to cause anyone to wonder.

* * *

Berimund had little time to observe Sir Mordred, though it hardly mattered; the lad was so quiet he barely spoke outside the circle of knights. Within a week, King Arthur left on another mission to the White Mountains. The exact nature for the excursion was confidential. Watkin stopped by the guardroom to excitedly inform his father he'd be gone for a time. The gleam in his eye warred with Berimund's fear for his oldest son. He loved to see Watkin in his element, but he dreaded especially clandestine missions. Secret meant dangerous, but he kept his worries to himself, patted Watkin on the back, and sent him on with all his well wishes for health and safety.

Turned out, he had cause for worry. Several days after the king's departure, Berimund had just delivered his newest guards to their respective duties when a rush of knights pounding down the citadel halls drew his attention.

"What is it?" Berimund called out.

Sir Edric looked back over his shoulder, continuing to run. "The king is back. He rides with a knight strapped to his horse."

Berimund's mouth went dry and his stomach sank. Such a sight meant one of their own was either gravely wounded or dead. He forced his leaden legs to trudge the distance after the knights. Red capes flapped in the breeze when doors were flung open and boots careened down steps. Berimund lingered in the doorway, watching as they moved to the horse with the body draped over it.

Other knights from the expedition came to a stop in the courtyard on their own steeds. Berimund pulled his gaze off the body to the other riders. Relief flooded him when he spotted the slumped shoulders and bowed head of the son he'd loved the moment he cradled his tiny infant form in his arms. Watkin lived. Then who might not?

The knight was gently lowered from his mount and lifted into the strong hands of his comrades. As they passed back through the door, Berimund stepped out of the way, but glimpsed the angelic face of the one they bore―the young Sir Mordred. Berimund glanced back out the door. Arthur spoke in conference with his closest knights, deep anguish evident in his expression. Watkin climbed the steps, pausing when he saw his father in the doorway.

"Da."

"What happened?"

Watkin stepped in front of his father. "The king...he was attacked by sorceresses...and Mordred..." Watkin lowered his head, his Adam's apple bobbing. "He took the blow. A pointed staff to the shoulder."

"How bad is the wound?"

"Merlin says magic's involved. Gaius needs to see him." Berimund nodded thoughtfully. Watkin looked up. "He saved our king for the second time, and I..." Watkin blinked rapidly. "Disparaged him. Said and thought things..."

Berimund laid a hand on Watkin's shoulder, well acquainted with moments of regret in his lifetime, things he shouldn't have said and things he should.

"Give Gaius a chance. You may be able to make amends."

Watkin nodded gratefully, squeezed his father's arm, and shuffled into the citadel.

* * *

Maybe it was concern over Watkin, fear that his son might have to carry the burden of not making things right with Mordred, that led Berimund later in the day toward Gaius' chambers. He didn't ascend the spiral staircase, but he did peer upwards. He had no valid reason to inquire after the young knight. How selfish would it sound to the physician to confess he cared about the knight's state because he didn't want his own boy to suffer?

Footsteps tapped down the staircase and Berimund backed away. Merlin appeared, face distressed and ashen. He slowed when he caught sight of the guard. "Berimund."

"Merlin. I wondered...how Sir Mordred fared?"

Merlin stared at him blankly a moment as if his thoughts had fled elsewhere. "Not well."

"He might die, then."

"It's likely." Merlin's expression morphed, hardening, and Berimund was disturbed by such a look on the face of this young man. He felt it had no business being there and recalled Watkin's insistence Merlin also sensed something off about Mordred.

"Where are you headed?"

"Kitchens. Meal for Arthur." He swallowed and spoke softly. "Though I fear he won't eat much today." The compassion Berimund was used to from the servant had returned.

"May I walk with you?"

Merlin nodded once and strode away, Berimund at his side. The servant's stride was unusually stiff, tense with unease. Berimund wondered if Merlin suffered the same as his son, worried that Mordred would die and he would carry the guilt of his negative feelings about the lad.

"Watkin tells me Mordred saved our king again."

"He did." Merlin kept his eyes focused ahead.

"He seems a loyal and true knight."

"He acts as one."

Berimund mulled that over. It wasn't a ringing endorsement. He cleared his throat. He knew Merlin well enough to speak directly. "He lived with the Druids as a child."

Merlin nodded. Berimund had heard some rumor of the knight's background when he'd first shown up with Arthur, though the days of his childhood weren't a strike against him. As Mordred had left the Druids so many years ago, his past was of little import to anyone.

"Does that make you suspicious?"

"Why should it?" Merlin spat out defensively.

"Maybe...You worry he might be tainted somehow."

Merlin slowed, stopped, and turned. "You think I worry over Mordred being _tainted_?"

"It's obvious enough to some you distrust him," Berimund spoke carefully. His interactions with Merlin had always been amiable and he felt out of his depth antagonizing the man.

Merlin sighed long. "Mordred's shown nothing but fidelity to Arthur."

"That doesn't seem to please you."

"It does! It just..." Merlin shook his head, pacing away.

"Do you know something about him?"

Merlin mumbled so Berimund wasn't sure he caught the right words. "Shadows of fate."

"What?"

Merlin slowly turned. "How can we tell what anyone will become?" The question wasn't spoken with scorn, but in a tone of pleading, as if the servant yearned for a simple answer. Berimund gave him one.

"We can't."

Merlin wrung his hands. " _You_ can't."

Berimund's brow knit at the emphasis and he scrutinized the servant. He'd watched this boy grow as his own, not from an infant, but from an eager, young lad to a thoughtful, wise man. A man of compassion, who made friends easily, felt deeply, and suffered the pains of the last years so faithfully alongside the royal family, he practically was one of them. And it suddenly made sense. "Morgana."

Merlin's brow now creased. "Morgana?"

"It's hard to trust after what she did, isn't it?"

Merlin raised his eyebrows. "I...suppose."

"I knew her as a child. Stubborn, rebellious, but full of heart. A girl of great empathy. I can hardly comprehend who she's become."

Merlin turned his head to the side, looking uncomfortable. Berimund thought he'd hit upon the truth.

"It would be only natural to suspect something false in Mordred's innocence. We've endured our fair share of traitors."

"Perhaps," Merlin whispered.

"But Mordred isn't Morgana. We can't burden him with that."

Merlin's shoulders sagged.

"Merlin?"

"Thank you for your wisdom. I must to the kitchens."

Berimund nodded and watched the young man's back as he hurried down the hall, hoping maybe something he'd said would allay Merlin's troubled spirit.

* * *

Not long after the king returned with Mordred, he departed once again, this time with only Merlin as company. None of the knights spoke of the purpose of the king's current mission, though based on their nervous expressions, Berimund guessed it had something to do with the wounded Sir Mordred. It would be typical of the king to seek a way to undo the magic that was killing one of his knights.

Four days after the king's departure, Watkin came barreling into the guardroom, all smiles as he grasped his father by the arm. "Mordred's awake, and he's recovering."

Berimund smiled at Watkin's grin, a weight lifting from his shoulders as it must from Watkin's as well. Maybe what Arthur and Merlin had gone to do had succeeded.

Berimund received a second pleasant surprise when Watkin showed up two days later in the dungeon with Mordred in tow. The newly recovered young man looked shy and unsure, glancing around at the dank surroundings. He hadn't ever been down here as far as Berimund knew.

"Mordred, this is my father, Berimund."

The knight dipped his head. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Berimund clasped the knight's offered wrist. "I should be saying so. You saved our king twice."

Pink colored Mordred's cheeks. "It is my duty to protect our king."

"And you did it well," Berimund encouraged, appreciating the boy's humility but wanting him to receive his due.

"Gaius won't let him do much work," Watkin explained. "But Mordred's going crazy with nothing to do. I managed to get Leon to agree to some light guard work."

Mordred nodded to Watkin. "Thank you."

"Knights take care of their own," Watkin returned, clapping the boy on the back. Berimund caught his son's eyes, unspoken words passing between them, Watkin's admittance he'd sold Mordred short and his relief that all had worked out in the end. "I'll leave him with you, then." Watkin departed with one last clap to Mordred's shoulder.

"Have you been down here yet?" Berimund asked.

Mordred shook his head.

"I'll show you what's here." As Berimund walked and explained, Mordred was attentive, brow creased like a student memorizing every word from his tutor. Berimund found it a bit amusing, and a little awkward, to think this boy technically outranked him. On the way back to the entrance, Mordred slowed his steps, gaze focused on the cells.

Berimund halted. "Sir Mordred?"

"Do you ever wonder," came the young man's soft, composed voice, "about the prisoners who have occupied these cells? Were they guilty? Innocent?"

Berimund almost laughed at the unexpectedly reflective question. The guards he'd trained never considered such a thing. He stepped up next to the knight. "I did once."

Mordred turned his head slightly to fix him with solemn blue eyes. "No more?"

Berimund thought back to his years in service, to wisdom spoken long ago now. "We're the hand of the king, are we not? We've sworn him fealty and trust him to judge fairly."

Mordred looked back to the cells. "You're right."

Berimund let his voice drop and leaned in close to the knight's shoulder. "Between you and me, King Arthur is much better than his father. He seeks to be a just and good man."

"And King Uther was not." It was a statement, not a question.

"He tried to be, but... I fear he was not always so."

Mordred turned to face him fully, resting his hand on his sword hilt. "I believe in Arthur. He wants peace. I trust him to make Camelot a better land for all."

Berimund smiled. "Well spoken. Come." As he directed Mordred back to the front of the dungeon and introduced him to the guards on duty, Berimund pondered the knight. Perhaps what had caused Watkin's feelings of distrust was Mordred's difference. He seemed more a boy who should be a scholar or a teacher or a monk. He was less warrior than the knights Berimund had known all his life.

Mordred was offered a seat by the guards and gladly took it, listening to their current discussion about the sudden invasion of rats and the servants' strategies to get it under control. And what of Merlin's unease? Berimund considered. Perhaps it wasn't fear of this boy turning like Morgana. He didn't seem the type to go wrong. Maybe it was what Berimund had assumed of Watkin―a bit of envy. The king had taken so readily to the young knight, perhaps Merlin felt he'd lost his friend to another.

Three days later, Arthur returned. He met Mordred with joy, embracing the knight in delight, and Merlin had stood behind them, shock and disbelief on his face. Later on, Berimund sighted the servant peering out a window along with Gaius, watching Arthur spar with Sir Mordred. Berimund was almost tempted to speak up, but Gaius would surely assure Merlin that even though Arthur encouraged the young knight, his closest friend was the manservant. Oh, Arthur and Merlin liked to pretend there was too much distance between them for friendship, but underneath the illusion of class differences were two men who weren't whole without each other. Merlin needn't worry. The king was and always would be his dearest friend.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I hadn't originally planned on writing a chapter on Mordred, but it was a request, so I obliged :-D It turned out to be a good transitional chapter to the last three chapters coming. I found Mordred as hard to tackle as Elyan, though. He's a bit of an interloper in series 5 and as such I dealt more with people's reactions to him than Mordred himself. I hope it comes off well!

For those who might be wondering, the last scene of my fic "Last Day in the Stocks" would take place before this chapter sometime in the 3 years between series 4 and series 5.


	14. The Legend

The atmosphere of the citadel, and its surrounding towns, buzzed with apprehension. Preparation had consumed the capital; even townspeople pitched in to prepare their soldiers for battle. Berimund had been promoted. With almost all able-bodied men either volunteering or being called into service, gaps needed to be filled for the castle's protection in their absence. Berimund now commanded every guard attached to the citadel.

The newly advanced captain strolled the halls, passing servants and knights hurrying hither and yon. He almost wanted to join the army. He would have harbored no qualms signing up to follow his king, but King Arthur himself had come to him and asked him to watch over his castle. It was Berimund's honor and duty to protect what was precious to the king during his absence. He wouldn't fail the man as he had a month ago.

Logically, he needn't blame himself, but he'd rather he do so than Arthur, who mourned the loss of Mordred by becoming isolated and guarded. How it must have hurt, the betrayal of another he had thought above suspicion just as Morgana and his Uncle Agravaine. When Berimund watched their young king in meetings stare off into the distance, a look of recrimination on his face, he knew Arthur blamed himself above all. Berimund wished at those times he could guard his king's heart as much as his body.

Watkin had sunk himself into a tankard after Mordred's treachery and been tossed out of the mid-town tavern. Berimund had tracked him down mumbling incoherently in a secluded alley, brought him home, let him sleep, then had a heart to heart in the morning. "I saw it, da. I knew!" Watkin had agonized. "I should have told the king! I'll never trust anyone again." "You never trust anyone, you never live," Berimund had replied, "I'd rather risk my trust than walk alone in suspicion and fear." Watkin rallied after a time, which Berimund thought partly attributable to the oath he'd heard all the knights swore between themselves to someday see Mordred executed for his treachery.

What Berimund didn't confess to his son was his own regret in not anticipating the young knight's passion. He hadn't expected the lad to break out a girl who committed treason. Later, when they'd both been imprisoned, his guards had seen the couple entwining fingers through the cell bars. When the girl had been led away for execution, Berimund had put his best men on the dungeon to guard Mordred, but couldn't have foreseen the boy using magic to escape. He'd never forget finding his men unconscious, bleeding out from the ears, and a cell door blown off its hinges.

After he'd seen his men to Gaius, he penitently sought out his king to apologize, but Arthur had waved him away, saying, "I alone am to blame." Merlin had been standing as usual just behind his master, and Berimund had momentarily locked eyes with him. The grief and pain there indicated the condemnation the manservant undoubtedly foisted upon himself.

When searches for Mordred didn't turn him up after three weeks, Berimund moved on, set aside failure to focus on duty. Then the report arrived that Morgana had taken the garrison at Stowell on their northern border, and the king planned to prevent further harm by riding out to make a stand against her. Berimund was glad for the news; the king's activity banished his morose mood. He always seemed at his best when defending his people.

Berimund sidled past a cluster of knights that had just left the battlements, back to the wall so as not to hinder their movement. Usually they'd acknowledge him in some way, but their conversation was intent and they spoke furtively. Battle plans, most likely.

When he reached the arch to the battlements, Berimund nodded at the two guards standing at attention on either side. The first order he'd enacted after his appointment as Captain of the Gaurd was the constant accompaniment of at least two of his men with the king at all times. Morgana commanded a horde of Saxons and heavens knew what else. He wouldn't put it past her to send an assassin to take out Arthur before he had a chance to march on her.

"He's out there?" Berimund inquired.

One of the guards nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Alone?"

"He commanded we stay back."

Berimund swallowed his protesting growl. The king was jealous of his privacy and didn't appreciate "nursemaids masquerading as soldiers" as he put it. He'd consented to the watch, but kept issuing orders like this that increased the possibility of harm. Berimund stepped out onto the battlements, taking a deep breath, preparing for a discussion of subtle points and counterpoints that he intended to win to safeguard his king. Arthur's back was to him, palms braced on the edge of a stone railing, arms locked straight, back stiff. Berimund took up position next him at the railing and noted the king's intense stare. He followed Arthur's line of sight and spotted two familiar figures on horseback.

"Gwaine and Merlin," Berimund commented.

Arthur grunted and didn't look at him.

"A mission, then, sire," Berimund continued. Well, his men had one, too. "My lord, I know you value your independence, b―"

"It's not a mission." Arthur's tone was quietly pained.

Berimund cocked his head. "Then where―"

"To pick flowers!" Arthur pushed off the railing and crushed folded arms into his chest, working his jaw.

"Flowers?" Berimund echoed in confusion.

"Medicinal herbs. _Vital supplies._ "

"Ah. For Gaius."

Arthur's jaw paused to clench tightly.

Berimund opened and shut his mouth a couple times. Arthur wasn't his father, but he'd still never spoken very frankly with the king. Berimund puffed out his chest. Well, he was head of the guards now. He'd have to display more backbone, even to the king.

"This makes you angry, my lord?"

Arthur's jaw slackened. "He should be here. He's always been here."

So, it wasn't the supplies themselves that disturbed the king; it was the absence of the one who sought them, the friend that wouldn't ride out with him into danger. "If I may be so bold, sire, Merlin's loyalty has always been insurmountable. If he has left, you can trust his motives are for your good."

Arthur turned his head and his scrutinizing glare at first made Berimund fear he'd overstepped his bounds. "You know him well?" There was something in the question that begged for confirmation.

"He saved my daughter's life."

Arthur lowered his arms from his chest. "He...what?"

"My daughter, Helene, had an illness. She was near death and Gaius was away and Merlin came instead. We didn't think he could do much, but we had no other recourse. She pulled through because of Merlin and we have been in his debt ever since. He is a welcome man in our home, a fine one, with a heart to defend Camelot as staunch as yours." Berimund hesitated, feeling awkward for lecturing so earnestly. "My lord," he added quickly, hoping he didn't offend.

Arthur's fierce blue eyes pierced him for five long seconds, then softened. "You're right," he spoke quietly. "Of course. All you say is true." His gaze turned back to the expansive view where the riders could no longer be seen. "Godspeed him and whatever he must do." _Without me_ , Berimund thought, was the intended meaning in the king's phrase. "But hang it all for the way we parted." Arthur rubbed a hand over his face.

"Merlin won't take offense."

"You're right again, no doubt. Now, what have you come to tell me?" The king had purposefully changed subjects, and Berimund obliged as was his place.

"To tell you, my lord, that I know you value your independence, but my men have instructions to remain within feet of you at all times except when you are in your chambers. You make their job..."

"Difficult," Arthur finished before Berimund thought of a diplomatic word.

"Yes, sire. If you..."

"I'll let them come nearer. You have my word. I appreciate your care."

Oh. Well. He hadn't expected this to go as well.

"Though you remind me of my wife and one is enough for any man."

Arthur smiled and Berimund grinned back. "Then, sire, I take my leave,'' he responded, turning to make his way towards his men and inform them of the king's consent. When Arthur spoke once more, he halted mid-step.

"Have you ever thought your life has come down to one moment and wondered what you failed to do to change it?" Turning back, Berimund beheld not the king, but the boy he'd been, the vulnerable child he had once judged too harshly, missing the potential underneath the arrogance.

"Choices, my lord, are not simple things." He spoke carefully as he would to Watkin or Tamas, as if Arthur were his own son. "Who of us can see all ends? We make the wisest choices we can and if we fail...we keep on."

"Who knew I had such a philosopher in my guards," Arthur mumbled.

Berimund flushed. "I'm only parroting lessons I've learned from others."

"There's wisdom in that as well." Arthur sighed. "I wish I had your years to guide me."

Berimund fixed his eyes on his king with unwavering faith. "What I know and trust, my lord, is that no one else will defend Camelot like you will and no one else is more likely to win."

Arthur looked taken aback and swallowed slowly.

"You're not the squalling infant I once held. You are our king, and we will follow you to the bitter end if we must."

A hissing breath escaped Arthur's lips. "How am I worthy of such loyalty? Don't answer. I think I understand...Squalling infant?"

"Eh, yes, sire."

" _You_ held me?"

"Your father was at a loss how to deal with you. I...helped."

Arthur laughed, then shook his head. "I suddenly feel a bit exposed by you, Berimund. I think you might have seen more of my foolishness than I like." Berimund didn't answer right away and when Arthur tilted his head pointedly at him, he shrugged his shoulders. Arthur clapped him on the back and walked with him towards the guards. "I promise not to hold it against you."

* * *

Two days later, Berimund stood along with his family and most of Camelot to see their men off. It would take them days to reach Camlann and Morgana was advancing. As Miriella clasped her arms around Watkin, motherly tears leaking down her cheeks, he tried to steel his own emotions. Stoic Helene was next, then bubbling Nora, and finally seventeen year old Tamas, shaking Watkin's hand and formally declaring him the best brother he'd ever had.

"Da," Watkin said, stepping in front of him.

"You keep your head up," Berimund advised. "Fight with all your skill. Eyes keen."

"I will." Watkin's hand clenched on his sheathed sword's hilt. "Da, I...you've done so much...and said so much...and I'm grateful for all of it. Really. Even if I didn't listen sometimes."

"I know, son." And curses, his eyes grew moist. He pulled Watkin in for a tight embrace. "You've made me proud. I wouldn't have traded you for any other firstborn in the world." When he let go, Watkin was blinking ferociously.

A horn blared a call to assembly. Watkin saluted them and formed up with his squad. Miriella wrapped an arm around Berimund's shoulders and he around her waist. He looked down the line of his children: Helene with a babe on her arm and a toddler clutching her skirts, her husband and two taller children standing next to her. Nora beaming and waving a white handkerchief as her own husband bounced a squirming infant. Tamas, silently tense, nodding at his brother. Watkin left to protect them. They all left to protect them—the proud subjects of Camelot.

Berimund moved his attention to the man mounted on a steed at the front of the knights and soldiers, resplendent in armor polished to a glaring shine. Merlin had clearly seen well to his king before his departure. Sunlight filtered down through a cloud, and for a moment, King Arthur's golden hair glowed as if he wore a shining crown, then they marched forward and the moment passed.

"For the love of Camelot!" Someone cried and the shout was taken up by the crowd. "For the love of Camelot! For the love of Camelot!" Berimund joined in with all the strength in his breath.


	15. The Queen

**Author's Note:** A thank you to doberler for looking this chapter over and offering suggestions!

* * *

A night's chill misted by a light spring drizzle went unheeded as Berimund aimlessly wandered the lower town. He needed fresh air, a chance to breathe and escape the oppressive atmosphere weighing on Camelot's subjects, even those in the mid-town tavern.

He'd been mulling over a drink along with several friends, their rapt attention on soldiers who'd risen to speak one by one. The room had been silent save for the occasional squeak of a chair or the tap of tankards against the wooden counter as Rickert set them down after wiping them clean. The crowd hung on the soldiers' stories of Camlann, at times voicing an encouraging, "Well, done" or "That showed them," and at others bowing their heads at the description of a blow taken and a soldier fallen. Berimund had finally had enough and silently excused himself with a nod to Hew who understood.

One detail dominated Berimund's thoughts as he ambled along. Every soldier had repeated it in one way or another, and the listeners responded by scoffing in disbelief or knitting their brows in curiosity or widening their eyes in wonder. A sorcerer, the witnesses claimed, had appeared to join their side, shooting lightning from above into the raging battle, though the how was in dispute. Did the electric bolts jolt from his fingertips or a staff or even his mouth? Regardless, Saxons were his targets, dropping like flies poisoned with monkshood.

 _A sorcerer?_ Berimund wondered. _Friendly towards Camelot?_ Such an unbelievable tale, but the adamant insistence of the soldiers who related a sorcerer's presence kept Berimund from discounting it. He sighed. Sorcerer or no, he needed to go back home to encourage Miriella and...

He stopped walking. A cloaked figure stood not far from him in the road. The clothing gave its owner away, even though the hood shrouded her features in shadow. He glanced up and down the road. She wasn't supposed to be unguarded. He guessed she'd slipped away, so like her husband, but he'd still lecture his men about being inattentive.

Berimund paced towards her. "My lady." The queen he'd previously known as a kind and gentle servant, had even taken into his home when she grieved her father, turned her head, and he dropped his eyes when he perceived glistening tears in hers. "I don't mean to intrude, but you should not be here alone."

Feet shuffled to him and a hand rested on his arm. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make trouble for you."

Berimund peered up into her pained brown eyes. "You aren't trouble, my lady."

The queen patted his arm. "I think...I need someone right now who knows me as more than queen, so no formality. Please."

Berimund nodded once and directed her to a weathered bench across from the house she'd been gazing on when he approached. She sat next to him, but her back remained stiff and straight. She'd been so subdued since she'd returned from the battlefield. Sir Leon had thought it wise to have her safely back in Camelot after the battle. Morgana hadn't been found as yet, and no one knew what she might be up to. The battle itself had been a victory, though costly, many lives lost. Berimund's heart twinged, but he ignored it for the sake of the woman next to him.

"Any word of the king?" he inquired.

"Gaius told me he's with Merlin."

"Why not with the army?"

Gwen stared into her lap. "He needs Merlin to care for an injury before he can come home."

Berimund momentarily furrowed his brow, then spoke assuredly. "If he is with Merlin, you can have faith in his return."

Gwen raised her head, glancing at the house across the way, dark eyes reflecting the glow of its window. "I realized I loved him there," she whispered.

With a start, Berimund registered where they were. "That was your home."

She nodded and then unexpectedly chuckled. "He was so rude and arrogant. So used to getting what he wanted exactly as he wanted it." She smiled and it was so heartening to behold a momentary lightening of her pain. "He tried to cook for me to make up for his lack of manners."

Berimund's eyes widened. "The king? Cooking?"

Gwen nodded again. "He didn't really. He made Merlin bring food from the royal kitchens. I was so insulted."

Berimund smiled. "Better luck for you, though. No telling how badly he might have done it."

Gwen leaned forward, her expression sobering, gaze intensifying on the house. "I wouldn't have cared. It was doing it that mattered, not how good it would be."

"The king," Berimund said, "isn't used to doing things badly."

"Maybe that's why he didn't try," Gwen admitted softly. "It didn't matter in the end, though. I saw the beginnings of change in him and..."

"Fell in love," Berimund finished with a hushed voice.

"Yes. We first kissed there, in my own home." Gwen closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. It's too personal a thing to tell you, isn't it?"

Berimund shook his head. "Speak as freely as you wish. I swear to keep your confidence."

Gwen suddenly leaned against his arm, her head on his shoulder. All right, maybe this was a bit uncomfortable, but she trembled against him and sniffled. "I love him so."

"Yes, my lady...Guinevere. And he loves you." Who could doubt it? He'd observed the way they sometimes missed words in council meetings when their eyes met and they couldn't look away, or how they went riding and came back more disheveled than appropriate, or the king's long nights puzzling out kingdom matters with his lady at his side. Gwen had grown gracefully into the role of queen, still kind but also judicious, and she'd gained universal respect.

For a time, neither spoke. Berimund intuited he needn't say more. She just wanted contact with someone who'd accept her as an anxious and sad woman, not a queen. Someone who'd already seen her grieve her father and could empathize at her suffering fear of the same over her husband.

"Berimund?" Gwen finally whispered.

"Yes?"

"What do you think of magic?"

Berimund guessed why she asked. "The rumors of the sorcerer who turned the battle bother you."

"They're not rumors. They're true."

"I thought they must be, though still hard to believe."

"I saw him with my own eyes. We would have lost without him. We owe _him_ our victory."

Berimund sucked in a long breath. "We've had no word of Watkin."

Gwen sat up and clutched his hand in hers. "Here I am, worrying over myself."

Berimund squeezed her hand. "We both carry a burden. You needed to speak of yours first." Contingents of knights had been trickling in over the last two days, many carting wounded or corpses. They reported the names of the living and the dead as able. Every day was a painful waiting game, wondering when someone would disclose Watkin's fate.

"I'll go with you to see Miriella."

"You should return to the citadel before the guards discover you missing."

Gwen rose and Berimund followed, letting go her hand. "Nonsense. A queen must see to her people, and I'm sure the Captain of the Guard at my side is enough to guarantee my safety."

Berimund smiled thinly as she started down the lane and he paced parallel to her. "I think, to answer your question, if my boy returns, I will be indebted to magic for his life. Perhaps then I will be forced to consider it useful."

Gwen smiled softly. "It always has been."

"My lady?"

Gwen continued to face forward. "We owe more to it than we know, I shouldn't wonder."

When they reached his home and the queen entered and enveloped his wife in an embrace, Berimund was once more impressed with Camelot's fortune to have such a good queen, though her words troubled him. What more did they owe to magic? What state secrets lay hidden behind doors he'd never been allowed to open?


	16. The Warlock

_Keeping moving. Keep doing. Don't think. Don't stop._ Berimund's internal mantra spurred automatic action as he spoke in clipped bursts, instructing his men in their duties and lecturing on decorum. He surveyed each guard at his assigned station, assuring his men maintained their composure and stood at attention, symbols of strength and power and security for Camelot's subjects this day. His own inspiration was the queen standing in the hall awaiting the opening of the grand hall doors. If she could maintain her composure, so could he.

Two of his men pulled open the doors when the trumpets sounded. Queen Guinevere strode forward, not a hitch in her demeanor, not a hesitation in her step. Berimund swallowed the rising of his heart in his throat. He couldn't be prouder of the maid turned queen than he was in this moment. Several guards followed her in; Berimund teetered on the threshold, glancing left and right at the crowd somberly gathered.

 _Don't think. Stand. Watch._

The queen reached the steps to the dais and climbed them, stately and strong, her shoulders back, her head tall. Sir Leon followed her up, taking a place to the side of her throne. Berimund scanned the rows of knights, noting gaps indicating comrades who were either too wounded to attend or had never come home. His gaze honed in on one particular empty spot and the breath in his lungs disappeared. His mind whirled backwards, his heart beat erratically, and his head began to spin. He backed into the hall, closing the doors. He'd go check on the guards he'd assigned to the battlements. Yes, he should do that.

He marched away to a set of stairs and took them two at a time, fleeing oppressive citadel walls squeezing in on him. Passing under an arch, he stumbled to the battlement railing, bracing it with both hands, inhaling deep, long breaths. _Don't think. Don't think._ A slight movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention. He turned towards it, desperate for distraction.

The red neckerchief that had caught his eye had shifted position along with its owner. Berimund kept quiet for a time, not wanting to intrude on the other's isolation. Rumpled, dirt stained clothing indicated the man hadn't cleaned up since his return. His eyes were closed and his face pale though turned into the sun. He sat on the railing a few meters away, one leg braced on the ground for support, the other drawn into his chest, both arms tightly wrapped around it.

Berimund glanced around. They were alone. His soldiers must be making the rounds as ordered. As he looked back to the man it occurred to him this was where he had found the king soon before he left for battle, standing at this very railing, distraught that his manservant wouldn't ride out with him. This time it was the manservant who suffered the distress. In spite of his own pain, Berimund felt the need to say _something_.

"Merlin?" he spoke softly, his voice almost cracking.

The raven-haired servant's eyelids fluttered and it took him a moment to focus on Berimund. "You came from the hall?" His voice was remarkably steady.

"Yes."

"How is she?"

Berimund didn't have to ask if he meant the queen. "Stronger than I've ever seen her."

Merlin's jaw stiffened and a fire in his eyes belied his calmness. "It shouldn't be happening."

"She'll be a good rul―"

"She'll be alone!" The sudden vehemence snapped Berimund's mouth closed. A day ago, Merlin had arrived back in Camelot. News traveled like wildfire, the sight of the faithful servant slumping through the streets _alone_ the harbinger of a painful truth. The entire city had been subdued since; already having shouldered the loss of husbands, brothers, and friends, it now had to bear the loss of its king.

"The kingdom will continue," Berimund argued quietly, his heart defending against any notion life wasn't as it should be, any hint that there had been no reason for the loss.

"The kingdom _he_ built." Merlin's eyes burned as they locked on Berimund.

"We must honor him for it."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "That's what everyone says," the servant spat. "Like it makes everything better!"

Anger surged as the servant's words punched holes through Berimund's carefully constructed facade. He rushed the servant on wobbly legs and gripped Merlin's upper arm. "You've been more loyal than any knight, any soldier, even the queen. Your every waking moment was given to the king. Will you continue to live for him? Or will you abandon us?"

Merlin glared at him.

Berimund shook him like a rag doll. "Watkin's dead." Unshed tears burned hot, blurring his vision. "Did my _son_ die for nothing? Did the king die for _nothing_?"

Merlin's own eyes welled as he wriggled out of Berimund's grasp, backing away from the railing and thrusting out his hand. Berimund gasped when Merlin's hand seemed to burst into spontaneous flame and scuttled backwards. His heart careened into his ribs when he beheld the golden gleam flash in the younger man's eyes. For a long moment, he stared into those eyes, unsure and uncharacteristically frightened.

"Well?" Merlin broke the silence. "Tell them. Execute me."

Berimund didn't move, stymied and frozen, a rare thing for the man who usually acted decisively. He'd faced sorcerers before―thieves, assassins, Morgana―but this was _Merlin_. He'd hosted this man in his home, spent time with him, found encouragement in his presence, defended him. For eight years the young man had served and not once had Berimund observed a hint of ill intent. They even owed Helene's life to him. If Merlin hadn't come when all hope had been lost...

A sudden pressure crushed Berimund's lungs as he recalled a young man barely trained in a physician's ways applying simple measures to try and save his daughter, remedies that on reflection were more palliative than life-saving. But he'd done one thing Berimund hadn't expected―he'd offered a prayer in a strange language.

Berimund pressed a hand to his chest as he worked up the courage to speak. "You healed Helene." His voice was a whisper.

Merlin's hand trembled, and Berimund perceived now not flame, but an ethereal, glowing orb. The sorcerer lowered his hand and the light vanished. Tears spilled as he nodded.

Berimund shook his head in awe. "You have this power, and you scrub floors and work like a dog and submit to the stocks?"

Merlin didn't reply, simply stared blankly, glistening lines tracking his cheeks.

"It was you, wasn't it? The sorcerer at Camlann."

The servant's Adam's apple bobbed and he nodded shortly. It all made sense now. A mysterious sorcerer hadn't saved them after all, but one who'd lived among them and had their backs all these years. What had the queen said of magic? _We owe more to it than we know, I shouldn't wonder_.

"The queen knows."

Merlin nodded a third time.

"And did the king?'

Merlin sucked in a shaky breath. "Not until near the end. Until..." Merlin's trembling hands went to his lips and he sank to his knees, wracked with sobs.

Berimund hesitated for only one brief second, then crossed the distance, fell to his own knees, and embraced the man. His own heart split open, grief gushing forth as the sorcerer clung to him without inhibition. They wept, mourning for those they had loved and lost.

After some time, Merlin mumbled broken words into his neck. "I'm sorry... So sorry... About Watkin. I was too late."

Berimund released the younger man and gripped his shoulders, fixing his gaze on the sorcerer's eyes and forcing out his own speech. "You saved Camelot... You and my son and our king... We're safe because of you all." Berimund gently shook Merlin's shoulders for emphasis. He had told the queen if Watkin returned, he'd be indebted to magic for his boy's life and willing to give it a chance. Watkin hadn't returned, but as he held the man in front of him, he realized he could do nothing but accept magic in Merlin, and if he could accept it in him, he could accept it in others.

Berimund stood, grasping Merlin's hand to aid him up. The sorcerer wiped at his cheeks and unexpectedly huffed a small laugh. "He used to say no man is worth tears." Merlin stared at his damp hands. " _He's_ worth them."

"And worth living for," Berimund added, brushing at his own wet eyes with a thumb. Merlin looked at him. "What is his sacrifice worth if we do not honor it by living?"

"For the love of Camelot," Merlin whispered. "As he'd want."

"For the love of Camelot," Berimund echoed.

* * *

Berimund was released early from duties. He suspected the queen did so out of gratefulness, but his feet moving towards home dragged like lead. What awaited him there but pain and sorrow? He reached his door, hesitated a few seconds with his palm pressed against its weathered wood, then steeled himself and entered.

He found Miriella, Helene, Nora, and Tamas, gathered in a huddle. Their gazes turned to the door and Berimund beheld his own anguish reflected in each expression.

"Da," Tamas spoke first and stepped forward. He lifted a sword, resting it horizontally along his palms. "They brought it back to give to us..." His son choked on the words and blinked back tears.

Berimund picked up the sword by its hilt, running his eye over the fine craftsmanship. It was the sword Sir Elyan had given Watkin all those years ago. His oldest son had praised it and never found a reason to replace it.

Berimund glanced at the far wall and a mounting that held a fishing spear he rarely managed the time to use. He strode over to it, pulled the spear down, and reverently replaced it with the sword. He ran a hand over the blade, nicked, its shine fogged. They'd said Watkin and his division had filled a gap against Saxons going for the king. His son, who had craved the life of a knight, had earned its honor in spades. And they would in turn honor him. He turned back to his family.

"From this day forth, we live for him. For our king. For our queen." His eyes glazed over. "For the love of Camelot."

Berimund moved towards his wife and son and daughters, arms outstretched. They met him, and he enclosed them all as best he could. There would be grief and mourning, memory and reminders, but time would march on. He hoped for a future made smoother and brighter by all who'd sacrificed so those left behind could truly live.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This chapter was so very hard to write. Writing a canon story is so very hard for me when I get to the inevitable end of the series. This is the last chapter before the epilogue which is already written and out to my beta and will be coming as soon as possible.


	17. Epilogue: The Soldier

_For the love of Camelot..._

Berimund set his quill into the inkwell and leaned back. A pair of hands unexpectedly squeezed his shoulders, massaging.

"You've finished?" Miriella inquired.

Berimund sighed, bowing his head so she could knead his neck muscles. "It grows tedious," he murmured when her fingers pressed into the nape of his neck. "I don't know why I had this idea in the first place."

Miriella chuckled. "As I recall, my husband ranted several months ago that young ones these days had forgotten the past and those who made their peace possible."

Berimund grunted. They'd suffered a fair share of upstarts causing trouble in the towns the week he'd blurted that out. This project had seemed an answer to the problem, but he'd come to doubt it. What were a simple soldier's memoirs worth? "I'm not a scholar. Who would ever want to read this?" he questioned, slapping a palm onto the last page he'd written.

"Your grandchildren."

Berimund fiddled with the corner of the page. "Well, if it instructs them at least, it's worth _something_." He stood, turned, and drew Miriella close with an arm around her middle, planting a kiss on wrinkled lips still attractive even now. When he pulled back, he ticked her chin with a finger. "Duty."

"As always." She let him go and he followed her into the living area. A chorus of "Da!" and "Grandfather!" met him. Tamas' youngest gripped him round the leg. Berimund hoisted his grandson up into the air, grinning and ignoring the ache in his older bones.

"Come on now, Michael," Tamas chided, pulling the exuberant child out of his hands. "Work now. Play later." He flashed a smile at Berimund. "Never considered I'd be the one saying what you always did."

Berimund slapped his son on the back and lifted his sword belt off a peg to cinch it around his waist. Nora appeared, pushing a meat pie into his hands. "You don't eat enough these days, da." She traipsed back to a gaggle of young women and girls puzzling over some newfangled cooking contraption along with his wife and Helene, who glanced up to wave good-bye, then glared at Tamas.

Tamas, understanding her unspoken order, herded the rowdy male siblings and cousins towards the front door. Tamas winked at him as they exited. Earlier he'd sworn to take them all to the royal forge if they'd promise to be his apprentices for a day. He'd wanted the forge cleaned spotless for a month and now he'd employed the hands to do it.

Berimund meant to follow his son out the door, but his eye had traveled as it often did to the sword Watkin had used at Camlann mounted on the far wall. Over the years, it had become a reminder not of loss, but of fortitude, courage, and the will to go on. He took a deep breath and stepped into the lane, heading towards the citadel that still dominated the skyline. Already having spent the better part of an hour in his memories, thoughts of his absent son spurred ghosts of the past that seemed to trail his steps.

Passing a familiar blacksmith's forge, he sighted Watkin, a teenager enamored, offering a wise and gracious maidservant flowers. Who could have guessed a young prince would capture her heart instead and she'd grow into a judicious queen?

The figure of a prodigal son returned haunted the forge as well, a young man in need of friendship and kindness and having received it, gifting a fine sword crafted by the hand of his own father in appreciation.

At the mid-town tavern, Berimund could hear the boisterous laugh of a man telling tale of saving the king and drinking himself into a stupor. Stories told over tankards now lauded the most honorable knight he'd become, the unparalleled loyalty that led him to put his life on the line even to the day of his death.

The shadow of a large wagon full of wares hid a giant man deigning to play with children distraught after dorocha attacks; his courting of a widow, later his wife, had revealed compassion even more his way than the ferocity of his sword.

Stocks standing empty in the market square were filled once more with a poor servant boy sent there by a royal prat Berimund wanted nothing more than to throttle when he tossed a rock at the helpless victim, even though later pity twinged in his heart for the youth raised only by a father.

Practice swords clashed on the training field, that same prat defeated by a soft-spoken squire who became his family's personal knight after they'd tended his wounds and opened their home to him. He'd risen to second in command, appointed with honor by the very one he'd once shown up.

The courtyard held sorrowful souls, lingering images of bodies laid out in lines after battles, but one particular bier without a corpse rose above them all, a memorial to the knight who had saved them from the dorocha through an act of ultimate self-sacrifice. Watkin had learned his mentor's lesson well. Berimund liked to imagine the knight had welcomed his son beyond the veil with a hearty, "Well done."

Citadel halls bore shades of all kinds, though a grieving ward turned vengeful witch worked her way to the forefront of his mind. She'd breeched their walls and attacked the very people who had once welcomed her, engendering his pity for the scared little girl who hadn't found a better way to redeem her pain.

A winding set of stairs led to a physician's chambers where an older man long passed beyond offered sage advice to a soldier unused to being wielded as a painful tool of punishment. He cherished the physician's words as a continual reminder of the strength found in duty.

Berimund reached his station. He'd taken over guard duty for one of his men whose wife had birthed their firstborn the day before. He leaned his back against the wall across from a set of large double doors and stared at them, voices from long ago echoing in his mind.

 _"Merlin, clean up this mess or I'll have your backside in the stocks in two minutes!"_

 _"Of course, sire. Whatever you say, sire."_

 _"Are you mocking me?"_

 _"Never, sire."_

 _"You are!"_

 _"Arthur, don't!"_

And the clang of a cup hitting a wall.

Berimund chuckled, then sighed. Two young men, opposite sides of a coin in so many ways, yet bonded by true loyalty and faith and brotherly love. One of them held to the conviction that the other would return someday, surety given by a dragon. Berimund wasn't certain one way or the other, but one could always hope.

A squeal ushered forth from the room, not in his mind, but a tangible sound in his ears that brought a smile to his face. Unlike the wailing cry of a babe being cared for by a grieving king inside the room, this child's cry was gleeful and assurance that whether the king returned or not, his kingdom would endure.

The queen's lilting laughter filtered through the door as Berimund ran a hand over his face, wrinkles evident beneath his fingertips. They said age made you wiser. Well, it certainly made you older. When it came down to it, he was just a simple soldier with little to offer but his body and service, and he'd given both to the best of his ability. Whatever simple legacy he might leave behind, he would always be profoundly grateful to be afforded the grace to live in this time, in this city, with these people, living and dead.

Berimund straightened to attention. "Forever and always," he whispered, "for the love of Camelot."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I am so sad to leave Berimund behind, but so grateful for taking him on this journey and for readers who have taken a chance on him. Thank you to everyone who has followed, reviewed, messaged, and encouraged me. I am grateful for you all. I am also grateful for doberler, for taking the time to beta as I wrote this fic. Her suggestions and advice have been invaluable.


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